


how wonderful life is (when you're in the world)

by AnnaofAza, writehandman



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic/Slice of Life, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Past Eggsy/Tilde, Post-Kingsman: The Golden Circle, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rebuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-11 20:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15323937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writehandman/pseuds/writehandman
Summary: "Having something to lose makes life worth living."With that, Eggsy thinks back to Harry on the plane, admitting his isolation and loneliness. A life that had been taken from him--and a life he’d laid aside.What do they have left but second chances?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Where there is love, nothing is too much trouble, and there is always time.” -`Abdu'l-Bahá
> 
> Thanks to writehandman for the art! You can see the pieces [here!](https://mooseinaboot.tumblr.com/post/176028806123) Good luck with your future graphic novel!

When it’s all over, they shed tears.

Harry knows that they’ve saved the world, that millions of people are going to be saved, including Eggsy’s girlfriend. But knowing that Merlin, his oldest friend, is dead sink in is a crushing blow. As a Kingsman, he had been prepared for his own death well enough, yet the thought of losing Merlin had rarely occurred to him. Merlin was his anchor--Kingsman’s anchor--he _was_ Kingsman.  

Beside him, Eggsy turns, clenching and unclenching his fists on his lap. “We have to--we have to--” He can’t say it, but Harry knows what he means. They have to go home, report to Statesman, and figure out what to do next. But first, they have to find Merlin’s body, likely scattered across the jungle.

The thought turns his stomach. “We don’t have to,” Harry says, even though the agent in him tells him that they have to move on. But how can they? Not since he’s heard about Poppy’s missiles has he fully realized the life he once knew was gone. “Not just yet.”

Eggsy’s shoulders shake with another sob. “ _God_ , Harry, I…,” and they’re holding each other, the crash of adrenaline gone, leaving only sorrow behind.

“What the fuck are you two crying about?” a voice, tight with pain, suddenly asks. “I’m the one who’s lost my legs.”

Merlin is just inside the diner, the bloody stumps at odds with the still-gleaming tile floors. It looks as if he's dragged himself through the dust and gore; every visible bit of his exposed skin and clothes are smeared in sickening colours. Through his suit, strips of bright blue show. The only thing that seems to be intact are his glasses, albeit crooked on his nose.

“ _Fuck_ —” Eggsy breathes, just as Harry exclaims, “ _Hamish—_ ”

“No time,” Merlin says, then surveys the scene in one glance: Harry and Eggsy still locked in an embrace, the message of DRONES ACTIVATED across the screen, the gruesome remains of Whiskey on the steel table. “Help me.”

Eggsy glances at a cart, pots and pans piled on top. “The land mines,” he says, face pinched.

Harry inwardly curses. He’d forgotten about the hidden traps near the plane. They can’t wheel Merlin out with such a clumsy contraption; even without the land mines, the uneven terrain would pose a problem. Merlin can’t use them as human crutches or be dragged, not with his injured legs and possible spinal injuries. Looking around, he sees no materials for a stretcher.

“We’ll have to carry you,” Harry says. He doesn’t want to cause Merlin any more pain, but they have to get out of here quickly. “Eggsy—”

Understanding, Eggsy rushes over and squats at Merlin’s left side, as Harry repositions himself at Merlin’s right. Merlin’s arms go around their shoulders, fingers clinging weakly. Their arms slide underneath Merlin’s knees, bracing him, careful not to jostle the tourniquet.

“One, two three,” Eggsy slowly counts, and together, they lift.

It’s one of the longest walks in his life. Every step is hurried but careful, carrying Merlin in a chair made out of their linked arms. Sweat trickles down their foreheads, running into dust and dried blood, but they don’t stop to wipe it off. Muffled groans and occasional hissed curses escape Merlin’s lips.

“Almost there,” Eggsy says, ignoring the sweat trickling from his forehead, “almost there.”

They go slower when they reach the jungle with its tall grass and twisted foliage, keeping an eye out for the deadly mines. It’s growing harder and harder to carry Merlin, especially with the battle adrenaline wearing off, injuries beginning to flare, but Harry forces himself to take a step, another step, another one. His temple, where the frying pan had hit its mark, throbs, along with the bruises on his knees and ribs, courtesy of Poppy’s robotic dogs and Whiskey. Eggsy, beside him, is limping slightly, but no complaint escapes his lips.  

Finally, finally, they reach the plane, and Eggsy gives Harry a brief, desperate look. “I have to open it. Can you hold him?”

“Yes,” Harry says, “but be quick.”

In another count of three, Merlin’s transferred onto Harry’s back, Harry gripping Merlin’s wrists to help him stay put. With a hand on the biometric pad, Eggsy gets the door open, and together, they manage to deposit Merlin safely on the bed in the middle of the room.   

“We have to replace the tourniquets,” Eggsy hurriedly says, “or at least add proper ones, but we can’t leave them on that long, not for the ride home. Your legs—”

“There’s no use in saving them,” Merlin interrupts. His voice is clipped, urgent and painful. “Just do what you need to do.”

“You’ve lost blood, too,” Harry says, looking around the plane, trying to recall Ginger’s hurried instructions before the flight to Italy kicked off, his own observations on their ride over.

“I’m O-negative,” Eggsy offers. “Let me—”

“That’s not necessary,” Harry says, though he admires Eggsy’s immediacy, his willingness to draw blood from his own veins to save Merlin; he’d do the same. Just as he thought, though, Statesman had been prepared. Inside a small refrigerator are neatly labeled bags of blood, IV line attached and ready to use. “Eggsy, the tourniquets.”

Eggsy scrambles over to the medical cabinet and gets to work, as Harry does the same. In practiced movements, he secures the IV and inserts the needle neatly just underneath the skin, taping it tightly. Dark red blood begins to flow through the clear tube. Beneath him, Merlin’s fingers clench and unclench on the blankets, spit forming on his lips.

“Drugs?” Harry offers, gesturing to the still-open cabinet.

“The maximum legal amount,” Merlin says, then closes his eyes, refusing to say more.

It doesn’t take long for Merlin to drift into hopefully-painless unconsciousness. When they’ve done everything they could, Harry turns to Eggsy, who’s still lingering by Merlin’s side. “I’ll close the door,” he says, “and you radio Statesman. Can you activate the autopilot, too?”

“Yes,” Eggsy says. With one last glance at Merlin, he heads over the cockpit, while Harry moves to the door. Just as he’s pulling it closed, he remembers Elton John.

 _Shit_ . They can’t leave him in Cambodia, not like this, and they’ll have to devise some sort of cover story, which would be difficult with the Statesman logo fucking _everywhere_ , not to mention the elaborate opulence, the weapons in plain sight, the conversations they’ll have to have with Ginger—

But then, Harry hears the sound of a plane taking off. It’s not theirs. From the still-cracked open door, he sees a shiny metal plane, built to carry one person, shoot off into the sky.

* * *

Soon, he and Eggsy install a schedule of shifts around Merlin’s bed, and Eggsy manages to convince Harry that he’ll take the first watch. Harry collapses on the nearest chair, telling himself he’ll get up in a moment to wash up and check his injuries, but ends up falling asleep right away.

He wakes up in his childhood home, watching his mother pace around the kitchen, a paper in her hand. His hands are folded neatly on his lap, but he’s slouching in his seat, looking down at his shoes. They’re not shiny, black oxfords with neat bows; instead, they’re boots, worn since his first year of secondary.

“You can’t do this, Harry,” she says, finally coming to a stop, pushing a brown lock of hair behind her ear. “What about your scholarship? What about studying butterflies?”

“Just yesterday, you told me to do something practical with my life,” Harry snaps. He remembers this age—fidgety, energy thrumming in his veins, looking for his place in this world. “Teach, be a barrister, work in government—something that pays the bills, since being a lepidopterist doesn’t exactly pay well.”

“I’d rather that,” his mother fiercely says, “than you getting shot at. _Dying_.”  

Her words are sharp, desperate, but Harry brushes that off easily, confident in his youth, his invincibility. “I need to be doing _something_ , Mother,” Harry says, trying to make her understand. “In these times, I can’t just be some…some academic, losing myself in butterflies and ignoring what’s going on. I have to—”

 _You have to go,_ Chester’s voice says, and Harry stares blankly into white space, the room falling away. He feels the weight of his glasses on his nose, pressing behind his ears. _You are meant to be a Kingsman—meant to—_

The white space shifts into something softer, inked butterflies decorating the surface. He looks down, no longer in his seat, holding a puppy in his arms. Eggsy’s gun is trained on him, resolute and sure. _Kingsman needs you, the world needs you, I need you—_

There are more voices, some familiar and some not, ghostly hands clutching at his shoulders and arms, phantom pain in his back and his legs and his head— _need you, need you, need you!_ —pleading, snarling, screaming, begging in time to a blaring siren.

There’s the deafening sound of a gunshot, and Harry feels himself falling, hands empty, looking at a blood-splattered sky, then—

His eye—the working one—is sticky with sleep, and for a moment, he startles, looking around, having forgotten where he is.  

He then sees Eggsy, still in his vigil over Merlin, and does his best to straighten up in his seat. “Need me to take over?”

“I’ve got time left,” Eggsy says, then softer, “you okay? I was thinking I’d have to wake you up.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m all right.” Well, as much as he can be. “How are you?”

Eggsy shrugs. “Fine,” he mutters, barely audible.

But Harry had seen the tight wince across his face, teeth gritted in pain. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m okay,” Eggsy says. “Just some bruises. Charlie got in a few good hits.” He offers a sardonic smile. “Haven’t punctured a lung. Just ribs cracked.”

Whether Eggsy knows this from past experience of his home life or missions, Harry doesn’t know, but it troubles him all the same. “Did you take anything?”

Eggsy shakes his head. “They make me tired.”

“What you need is rest,” Harry says, “and drugs.”

That coaxes a startled laugh out of Eggsy. “It’s really not that bad. I can handle it.”

“Let me check, though,” Harry says. “Just as a second opinion?”

Eggsy looks surprised. “If you want.”

Harry moves closer, and without thinking, lifts the hem of Eggsy’s shirt up. Across the pale skin is a myriad of dark, blotchy bruises, along with a few red marks. Harry thinks of Charlie’s metal arm and shudders, thinking how forceful the blows must have been, surely twice as strong--if not more--than the average human hand. Eggsy’s stomach, he notices, has quite a lot of faded scars, jagged slashes and neat holes and chaotic bursts, some trailing into the waistband of his trousers, and Harry resolutely turns his gaze away.

Harry’s fingers press very carefully, very gently along the ribs, and Eggsy hisses, quickly covering it with a too-bright smile. “See? Not bad.”

“All the same, I suggest you stay as still as you can. You’ll need x-rays.” His hands linger a little too long on the exposed skin before brushing back. Eggsy’s shirt falls back over the wounds. “In the meantime, you need paracetamol.”

Without waiting for a reply, Harry forces himself up and towards the medicinal cabinet, bringing back two bottles with familiar-looking pills and a bottle of water. “Here,” he says, handing one to Eggsy.

Eggsy hesitates for a moment before taking it. He looks at the label, then pops open the cap, swallowing the pill in one gulp. Although his fingers close around the other bottle, they only deposit it onto the nearest surface without so much as a twist on the cap.

“What about the other one?”

Eggsy shakes his head. “No. I’ll be fine until Ginger looks at me,” he says. His face darkens. “Merlin is the first priority when we get back to Kentucky.”

There’s guilt clear on his face. He’ll blame himself, Harry knows, for this for the years to come, perhaps until the rest of his life, and the silence sits heavily between them.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” he says at last. “I don’t think I could have…lost you and Merlin on the same day.”

“Same here,” Eggsy says, with a shudder of relief. He then looks at Harry, focusing on the red marks where Whiskey’s lasso had tugged, threatening to kill him where he stood. “Shit, Harry, you were right about Whiskey,” Eggsy suddenly says. “I never should have trusted him. He could have—and I thought—” He cuts himself off, eyes now firmly fixed on the floor.

Harry’s now curious. He hadn’t seen much to like about Whiskey, and even Eggsy’s trust in the man did little to change that. “Thought what?”

“It was…after a mission,” Eggsy says, still averting his gaze. “I still thought Roxy was dead, that you weren’t…coming back, and Whiskey sat me down, poured me a drink, the whole thing. Seemed to understand what I was going through, told me that making Poppy and Charlie pay would help. Guess I should’ve spotted something in that.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

Eggsy’s head comes up, looking Harry with fierce remorse in his eyes. “But _you_ did.”

“Look at Chester,” Harry says gently. He can’t have Eggsy beating himself over this. “You only knew him from a handful of times, and _you_ were the one to figure out he was betraying us all.”

Ducking his head, Eggsy mutters, “Just had a feeling.”

“And when did you have that realization?” Harry asks. He knows the story from Merlin and Eggsy, abbreviated for time, but wants to walk Eggsy through the process, show him the similarities of their thinking patterns and instinct.

“When he poured me a glass to toast you, even though I wasn’t a Kingsman,” Eggsy says, looking down at his own drink again. “I remembered what you said about him, how he treated me during the dog test, didn’t add up. And then—the scar behind his ear. That confirmed it.” He then narrows his eyes at Harry, likely suspecting what he’s been up to. “Guessing you had the same thing with Whiskey?”

“It was at the table, when Whiskey expressed little concern about Tequila,” Harry says. “I figured a man who doesn’t care for his colleagues couldn’t care for the rest of the world. It rattled me, but it was only a suspicion. It wasn’t until he broke the vial that I knew for sure.” Eggsy’s silent, watching him, and Harry continues, “I was a field agent for twenty years, but I have still been fooled. You’ve been one for a little over a year, and look what you’ve accomplished. A true Kingsman.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy asks doubtfully.

Harry takes a deep breath. He knows what he has to do. “Eggsy,” he begins, “I apologize for hurting you that day.”

“It's been a year.”

“I know.” _But still, it never went away, did it?_

Eggsy's quiet for a moment. “Thank you,” he says softly but with ironclad dignity. “I'm sorry, too. I said some shitty things myself, and when I saw you get shot, I thought...” His voice trembles a modicum. “I thought those would be the last things you'd remember about me.”

“No,” Harry leans forward. “Eggsy, when I remembered you, I thought...” He pauses, stopping himself before he can lay it bare. Eggsy is empathetic, Eggsy is still partly unknown to him, Eggsy is changed. Why would he want the sentimental affections of damaged goods?

“I thought of you fondly,” he ends up saying, as close to the truth as he dares.

Eggsy's face has gone softer. “Same here.” He clears his throat. “I...when I first saw you in that cell, I thought someone was playing a joke. But you were there...you are here. And I want...” His words rush out in one breath: “I want you to come back with me.”

“Of course I will,” Harry says, bemused. “I didn't plan on staying in Kentucky.”

Eggsy flushes. “No,” he stutters. “I...I...” He seems to steel himself, Harry waiting, chest tight with anticipation. “You know Poppy blew up your house.”

 _Your house_ , Harry wants to correct, but only says, “Yes, I recall.”

“Well, since you don't have a place to stay, I was thinking...” Eggsy pauses for so long that Harry almost breaks in. “You know, you can stay with me.”

Harry’s shocked into silence. Finally, he manages, “Are you sure?”

Eggsy nods, resolute. “I am. Please.” His tone is more vulnerable now. “I need this. Need you.”

 _I need you, too,_ Harry thinks, before saying softly, “I will. Now, get some rest. I’ll watch over him.”

With one last glance at Merlin, Eggsy nods, then slumps into the nearest chair, curling up into a ball, and for the next few hours, Harry watches two chests rise and fall, rise and fall--alive, alive, alive.


	2. Chapter 2

A week later, they take a plane, then a car, back to London. Merlin’s decided to stay with Statesman for recovery’s sake and to help Ginger train someone to take her place. They’ve already picked a young recruit, suspicious of the American government and, of all clichés, from New York City. Harry knows very little about him, except for his name, Elliot, and that he was involved in something secretive before being chosen for Statesman. 

At the airport gates, Eggsy lets out a choked shout, then, before Harry knows what’s going on, throws his arms around a young woman, brown hair tied back and wearing jeans and a riding jacket. She hugs back equally fiercely, letting herself be lifted off the ground, and they rock back and forth in place, clutching and crying. 

Harry first thinks,  _ Tilde,  _ then realizes it was Percival’s niece, Roxy, who’d become Lancelot in James’s place. They’d been thick as thieves during training, as close as he and Merlin were, and if not for the clear bias Harry had for Eggsy, he would have rooted for her.  

Roxy manages to untangle herself from Eggsy’s hug to politely shake Harry’s hand and help them with their luggage, but can’t resist embracing Eggsy again before getting back into the car. Her hands tremble on his back, and Eggsy looks misty-eyed himself, oblivious to the stares they’re drawing in the drop-off lot. 

On the way back, Roxy fills them in on the details, occasionally glancing at the backseat through the mirror, as if confirming that they’re actually here. She’d managed to escape, Roxy explains, to one of the bunkers in the manor, but since she’d put together—“guessed, really, but you can never be too safe”—that Kingsman had been infiltrated, she became cautious in trying to contact other agents. 

“I knew you were in Sweden with Tilde,” she says, “so I thought you were safe. But I wasn’t sure how to contact you. Your mobile didn’t work—”

“Merlin made us destroy them,” Eggsy explains, with a grimace. 

“I thought so, and I would have tried your glasses, but mine fell off while I was, well, running for my life.” Her tone seems blasé, but Harry can detect a residue of fear, something that doubtlessly creeps into her dreams at night. “You mentioned Charlie at our debrief. I figured he just told Poppy where everything was, tracked you as you went about so he could have the exact coordinates. But you were alive.” 

“Because you knew I was with Tilde.” 

“Well, that’s what I hoped, but I couldn’t be too sure.” Roxy signals, then turns right, smoothly avoiding an irate taxi driver. “So I saw your mum, and she told me you’d managed to contact her. Said you were taking a trip, but with no specific details—”

“Didn’t want anyone to come after us,” Eggsy says.

“I couldn’t follow you. I didn’t have my passport or money, but that wasn’t the problem. With no solid leads---” She shakes her head. “But I knew where the Berlin branch was. That was my only hope.” 

“And you found them,” Eggsy finishes, with a sigh of relief.  

“I did,” she says. “Luckily, Poppy didn’t know about it, and Amelia remembered me. We managed to contact Merlin--right after you two left.” 

“I wish he’d told us,” Eggsy says. “ _ Fuck _ , Rox. All this time...but you’re all right. Does that mean…?”

Roxy’s tone is now more somber. “No. I just know that you and Merlin are...alive. And the Berlin branch. But,” she says, trying to sound optimistic, “we cobbled together some secure safe houses in Britain and started to brainstorm what to do about Kingsman.” 

“There’s a lot of work ahead of us,” Eggsy replies gloomily, and Harry nods silently. He can tell that none of them are looking forward to it. 

“Yes, and for now, the destruction of the shop and several houses have been ‘connected’ to a fictional domestic terrorist group.” Roxy shrugs at their skeptical expressions. “I know; it’s not the best cover story, but it’s been buried with the blue rash ep--oh!” 

“What’s wrong?” Eggsy asks, looking around, already reaching for the gun tucked into the backseat. 

“Tilde!” Roxy exclaims, quickly turning around to face him; luckily, they were at a red light. “Tilde, I heard she was infected, too. Is she all right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s good,” Eggsy reassures her. “Got the cure. Green.” 

Roxy steps on the gas, the car shooting forward. They drive on for a few miles before she asks, voice casual, “When are you going to see her? I know we’re busy, but you should--” 

“Yeah, but I don’t think I can. I explained it to her yesterday,” Eggsy says, “just before we were going. Her dad’s still not happy with me, though.”

Roxy nods, mock-solemnly. “Ah, yes, I remember his inane  _ Jeopardy  _ rounds.” Harry raises his eyebrows, but that’s a story he’ll have to hear at a later date. “It was all going so well, then you had to tell him to ‘shut it.’”

“And I ran off right after that, but you can’t blame me, I thought—” Just like that, the teasing mood evaporates, and both of them fall silent. Harry sits awkwardly by Eggsy’s side, turning his attention to the passing buildings, as Eggsy fiddles with the hem of his jacket. Roxy keeps driving, and for the first time, Harry notices the dark red scratches on her hands and wrists. 

“How is Merlin?” she finally asks, quietly. “I thought he would be coming back with you.” 

“He’s…alive,” Eggsy says. “But he’s stayed behind to recover a bit more. Getting new legs, too.” 

Roxy nods, keeping her eyes on the road. Again, they don’t speak, only absorbing what had happened. 

Droplets begin to fall, and as Roxy turns on the windshield wipers, Eggsy leans back in his seat and yawns. 

“It’s nice to see rain again,” Eggsy says, a bit drowsily. “There wasn’t a drop in Kentucky.” 

“No,” Harry says, though he wouldn’t have known, being kept indoors all the time. Part of him wants to step out of the cab and walk, feeling the water droplets against his exposed skin, breathe the cool air, feel the wind lift his hair. But it’s too far to walk, too late, and they still have their luggage in the car.

Finally, Eggsy says, “This is me. Home sweet home.” 

Harry looks at it curiously. It’s a medium-sized, white house with a garden full of tangled greens, along with a small orange tree blooming near the door. The lights are on through the blue curtains, and he hears a dog barking. 

Roxy helps them unload the car, but politely refuses Eggsy’s invitation to come in with them. She and Eggsy hug again, clinging together for several seconds, and when they pull away, Roxy taps her glasses. “Call me.” 

“Of course.”  

With a friendly but awkward nod in Harry’s direction, Roxy gets back into the car and drives off. Eggsy watches it until it turns the corner, then says, “Guess we should head in. ‘S coming down harder.”  

The door opens before Eggsy can raise a hand to knock, and there in the doorway is Michelle Unwin. Her hair is longer than he remembers, hanging past her shoulders and a darker shade of blonde, with more lines around her eyes and on her forehead. In one arm, she’s holding a squirming pug, and clinging to her is Eggsy’s little sister, whom Harry only knows from stories and the photos on Eggsy’s phone. 

She stares up at them with wide eyes before charging at Eggsy, flinging her arms around him. 

“Daisy,” Eggsy says, dropping his bags to lift her up. Smiling, he buries his face in her curls, the color similar to both her mother’s and brother’s. “Daisy, hey.” 

“Where  _ were _ you?” Daisy demands, wiggling, and Eggsy gingerly puts her back down with a small smile. 

“America,” Eggsy says. “Kentucky, in fact, and I bought you something it’s famous for.” 

Harry doubts it’s bourbon. 

“Let’s get inside first,” Ms. Unwin says, a bit sharply, then once the door is shut, turns to Eggsy, putting JB down on the ground, who jumps up and paws at Eggsy’s legs. “You said you were bringing a friend.” 

“Harry  _ is _ my friend,” Eggsy says, and Harry feels something constrict in his chest, a combination of pleasure and pain. 

“Oh?” she asks flatly. 

“Yeah,” Eggsy replies defiantly, looking on the edge of crossing his arms. He ignores JB’s pawing, and the pug trots over to Daisy, who pats him on the head several times with the flat of her palm. “I told him he can stay here.” 

Ms. Unwin looks between Harry and her son, lips turned down. It’s clear that she’s unhappy.  

“We can go somewhere else, Mum,” Eggsy says softly. 

“No,” Ms. Unwin sighs, and Harry tries not to feel relief, then dread. “I would like to have you home for a while.” Her hand comes down to pat Daisy on the head, who’s retreated behind her right leg and staring up at Harry, chewing on her nails.  

“This is Harry,” Eggsy says gently. “He’s going to stay with us for a bit.”

His mum’s lips thin some at that, but Daisy only blinks, looking very intently at Harry’s new glasses, courtesy of Merlin, with the one lens blacked out. “What’s that?” 

“Something to help him see with his left eye and to also cover his other one.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s injured, love,” Eggsy says simply, no mention of gunshots or surgery or alpha gel. “It’s like a plaster.” 

She nods, taking it in with the acceptance of her young age. “Will it get better?” 

Eggsy’s cheeks flush. “Daisy,” he warns. 

“No,” Harry says simply. “It won’t.” 

She tilts her head, lips turning down in a speculative frown. “It hurts?” 

“It used to,” Harry says, which is true enough. “Not anymore, really.” 

Satisfied, Daisy nods. “’Kay,” she says shyly. At the corner of his eye, Harry notices Eggsy’s eyes widen in surprise as Daisy holds out her hand, fingertips still wet from spit. “Nice to meet you.” 

Despite the mess, Harry crouches down to her level and dutifully shakes it, making a mental note to wash his hand when she's safely out of sight. “Nice to meet you, too.”

* * *

 

There’s hauling of what little they have to the guest bedroom, where Ms. Unwin takes one look at the bed near the window, shoulders stiffening. 

“I can make up the couch,” she says pointedly. 

“Don’t worry, Mum,” Eggsy says. “I’ll handle it.” Whether it means they’ll share the room, or someone—and Harry’s already coming up with arguments on how it should be him—kips on the sofa, he doesn’t know. 

Ms. Unwin shifts to one foot, looks down at the ground, and says, “I don’t have much in the fridge for all of us. Takeaway sound good?” 

“Yeah,” Eggsy replies, at the same time as Harry nods. 

Ms. Unwin shifts to another foot, not looking at Harry when she asks, “Any preferences?” 

“I’m fine with anything,” Harry says, so politely that Ms. Unwin gives him a double take, likely wondering if she can feed him a half-frozen meal from Tesco’s and get away with it. 

“Same here,” Eggsy quickly says. 

“Right,” Ms. Unwin says, nodding slowly. “I think we can have something from that Indian place a few blocks down. Eggsy, mind showing your sister what you got for her?” 

It’s a good excuse, and Eggsy dutifully pulls a brown, stuffed horse from his bag, following her down the hall and the stairs. Harry turns away, beginning to unpack and put the clothing Statesman provided in the dresser, trying to ignore the voices, both rising slightly with each passing minute.

“When you said a friend, I thought you meant Roxy—”

“Roxy has her own place—”

“What about Tilde?”

“What  _ about _ Tilde? Mum…” 

Eggsy’s next few words are too low to hear, and Harry quietly finishes the last of his packing, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The voices are lowered now. 

He can easily steal out and eavesdrop, but finds that he doesn’t want to hear anything else. He knows as much as Ms. Unwin dislikes him, she’s not going to throw him out, especially with her son championing his stay. Their conversation will take a while, though, and Eggsy still has to give Daisy her present, so for now, Harry slips out of his shoes and reclines on the bed.

* * *

 

He wakes up to a bright light and jolts up, at first seeing a white room patterned with butterfly drawings, but at second glance, realizes where he is and who’s standing in the doorway, hand still on the light switch. 

“Sorry,” Eggsy says, with a sheepish smile. “Do you want to come down for dinner? I can tell Mum you’re tired, or I can fix you a plate and take it up.” 

“Don’t trouble yourselves,” Harry says, already getting up. He first quickly freshens up in the bathroom, for politeness’s sake, then follows Eggsy downstairs. 

Everything has been set up, with the dishes laid out and takeaway cartons open in the center. Ms. Unwin and Daisy are already seated, with Ms. Unwin spooning food onto her daughter’s plate. Harry sits as far away from Ms. Unwin as manners allow, and Eggsy slips in right beside him. “Tuck in,” he says. 

Harry places his napkin on his lap, cutting delicately into his samosa with a knife. He feels as if this is slightly an overkill, judging by Eggsy’s and Ms. Unwin’s respective looks of confusion, but a gentleman always makes a good impression. 

Eggsy, though, eats as if he hasn’t for a few days, flecks of curry sauce and crumbs falling on the collar of his shirt and clinging to his fingers. The last meal, Harry recalls, had been on the plane, and Eggsy had barely touched it. Instead, he’d drank cup after cup of tea and ginger ale between playing games on his phone and resting, head back against the seat. 

“So, how was America?” Ms. Unwin asks, apparently giving up on spending the rest of the dinner in total silence. 

“Hot,” Eggsy says. “Uh, met some…business partners. They’re going to merge with Kingsman.” 

“Is that so?” Ms. Unwin takes a bite of her tikka masala. “Are they  _ tailors _ , too?” 

“Whiskey distillers,” Eggsy says. 

Ms. Unwin raises her eyebrows. Harry knows now that Eggsy keeps the details of what his job is a secret, but it seems to be a thin fiction at best. “Interesting. Who knew drinks and suits would go so well together? Never heard of that kind of business partnership before.”

“It’s a...lifestyle brand,” Eggsy says quickly. “Kind of put our heads together and thought about it--posh clothes, posh drinks, that sort of thing.” 

“Going international, though?” Ms. Unwin asks. Daisy, oblivious to this, is gnawing on her samosa and tracing imaginary designs on the table. “What brought this on? I thought you said Kingsman was exclusively a British company.”

“It will open up a new clientele and boost each of their respective revenues,” Harry cuts in smoothly, and Eggsy shoots him a grateful look. “Or so I’m told. This merger was made by the higher-ups, not us.” It’s true. He had no say in the matter and would have refused if Kingsman wasn’t in dire need of funds and resources.   

This time, Ms. Unwin’s attention is on him. “It seems like an interesting story, though, with Eggsy saying earlier that you were--” 

“Mum,” Eggsy says a bit desperately, “how’s Daisy doing? How’s her school?” 

His mother, Harry’s sure, knows exactly what Eggsy’s doing, but thankfully decides to answer Eggsy’s questions. Harry’s able to finish off his meal and go back for seconds while they talk about Daisy’s reading schedule, her feud with one of the girls in her class, a science experiment gone awry, and a dance recital near the end of the month. Daisy occasionally chimes in with babbled commentary and some defense of one of her behaviors--“I had the  _ tricycle  _ first”--but otherwise, concentrates on eating. Occasionally, she sneaks quick glances at Harry, which Harry returns with awkward smiles. 

Finally, dinner is over, and Ms. Unwin stands up, taking her plate and Daisy’s in hand and heading towards the kitchen. Eggsy follows suit, and Harry quickly stacks his utensils. Ms. Unwin lifts her head, hands still scrubbing a dish, then turns her back. 

“Daisy, you’re on rubbish duty tonight,” she says, faux-cheerfully. “Can you pick up the cartons and napkins and throw them in the bin for me?” 

Daisy pouts, but leaves the room anyway, and finally, Ms. Unwin says, without looking at either of them, “So. You don’t seem to be dead after all.” 

There’s little to say but a “no,” and Harry stands there awkwardly, still holding his plate, while Eggsy shifts to his right foot. Ms. Unwin opens the dishwasher and starts putting things away, then finally, dries her hands and turns towards them, arms crossed. “There are a lot of questions I have,” she says flatly, “but I know Eggsy’s going to stick to his story. You can stay. For now.” 

“We’ll try to get out of your hair as soon as we can,” Eggsy says. 

“I’m happy to have my son back,” Ms. Unwin replies, and it’s clear that she’s not including Harry in the welcoming party. “But your house--are you going to move back to the same place?” 

“It’s not rebuilt yet,” Eggsy says. “And besides, I don’t know if, uh, we’ll move back in.” He turns to Harry with a shrug; they haven’t discussed this. “Do you want to?” 

“I…” Harry hesitates. “To be honest, I don’t think there’s much for me there anymore.” 

It’s true. His home location has been burned—both literally and figuratively—and everything in it is done. The gravity of it hits him: no battered photo albums, no newspaper covers, no shadow boxes, no dog-eared books, no Mr. Pickle. Merlin had told him that Eggsy had held onto everything, nothing moved into a separate storage, nothing that could have survived that explosion.  

“I’m sorry,” Eggsy says, gently laying a hand on his arm. His eyes are downcast, looking at the plate still clutched in his other hand. “I…” 

“No,” Harry interrupts. Ms. Unwin’s gaze is boring their way into his good eye. “It’s all right. It’ll be nice to start over.” 

“Start over,” Eggsy echoes, then cocks his head. Whatever thoughts he’s having, Harry can’t tell. “Yeah. Sounds nice.” 

Ms. Unwin lets out a soft “hm” and says, “Start over, huh?” It looks as if she has a lot to say, but Daisy then wanders back into the kitchen, done with her chore and clutching Eggsy’s gift in her arms, ready to play a little before going to bed. 

“Well,” Ms. Unwin finally says, turning away at last, “you can start by putting your things away.” 


	3. Chapter 3

When Eggsy pictured him and Harry in the same bed only a year ago, the thought of it being in his mum’s house was never something that had crossed his mind.

Now, he and Harry look at the small bed in stupefied silence, clutching their pyjamas and toiletries in their hands. His mum listened and didn’t make up the couch, but there’s a bundle of extra blankets and pillows on the foot of the bed.

“You can take it,” Eggsy says, just as Harry says, “You sleep on the bed. It’s your house.”

Eggsy gestures to the rumpled covers. “You already slept in it.” It’s a weak argument, and he knows it. “First dibs.”  

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Harry retorts, “except that since I got a turn, you should, too.”

He’d almost forgotten how stubborn Harry can be. Almost.

Just as Eggsy’s about to open his mouth, he realizes that this argument can go on for several hours, and neither of them are going to bend in the slightest. Both of them need sleep. Both of them hadn’t gotten to sleep in a proper bed in their own home. Both of them need to be up early tomorrow. He glances at JB, who’s snoring in his doggy bed near the dresser, heedless to their dilemma.

“Fuck it,” Eggsy suddenly says. “It’s big enough for the two of us.”

Without waiting for Harry’s response, he goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.

It takes several minutes, after brushing his teeth and while changing into his pyjamas, when it hits him. He’s about to walk out the door without his shirt—and sleep in the same bed as Harry.

 _No big,_ he tried to tell himself. Harry had likely seen him shirtless, especially if he looked in during the water test. Hell, Merlin watched him and the other recruits shower, shit, and do worse in that dormitory. Eggsy had always gone to bed without a shirt, except when it was freezing and the thermostat wasn’t working. What was his deal?

With a frustrated groan, Eggsy picks up the rumpled shirt he’d worn all day from the floor. He’s being ridiculous and knows it, but that doesn’t stop him from slipping on.

Head held high, studiously not looking in Harry’s direction, Eggsy tells Harry that the bathroom is ready and pretends to be busy putting his jeans and shoes away until he’s gone.

After hitting the light switch, he quietly climbs into bed, rearranging the extra pillows underneath his head and pulling the blankets to his ears. His stomach is comfortably full from dinner earlier, his limbs feel heavy and sore, and there's a stiffness in his neck from the plane ride. He's never been happier to sleep in a bed in his life.

Eggsy’s just about to close his eyes when Harry comes back, clad in sweatpants and a white t-shirt, probably the same ones from Kentucky.

“You can turn the light back on,” Eggsy says stupidly.

“I can find my way, thank you,” Harry replies, and Eggsy is completely rigid in place the whole time Harry puts away his clothes and slips in beside Eggsy. Harry lies flat on his back, stiff and straight, head turned towards the door, same as he did back in Kentucky. From the corner of his eye, Eggsy sees Harry reach up and lightly pull at his eyepatch, then quickly resettle on the bed.

"You can take it off, you know," Eggsy says, turning his head slightly so Harry can hear properly.  

"I'm fine," Harry replies, but there's a stiffness in his voice.

"It just looks uncomfortable." He doesn't know what to say next without being pushy. If Harry doesn't want to remove it, that's fine, but if he's doing this because of Eggsy...

"Thank you for your concern, but it's fine," Harry responds, then pulls the covers up over his chest. He continues to stare up at the ceiling. "Good night, Eggsy."

Guess that's it, then. Eggsy lays his head back down on the pillow and tries to close his eyes again. “Night, Harry.”

* * *

Eggsy wakes up from a flurry of dreams—towers of flames around London, Tilde with blue veins crawling up her face, Whiskey's lasso around Harry's neck—in a sweat. For a while, he just sits up, chest heaving and fingernails digging into his knees, trying to remember the exercises Merlin gave him. 

Tilde sometimes woke up with him, sometimes was so deep in sleep that she didn't notice, and Eggsy envies that, the easiness of a civilian. But when she did wake up, she would try to talk to him, hands smoothing up and down his back. Sometimes he told her what haunted his dreams—Gazelle kicking at him with her deadly blades, lungs burning while running for his life, a graze of a bullet against his cheek. But he could never voice certain things: Dean cracking his head on the counter, his mum sobbing quietly in the night, Harry getting shot. She knew about the last one, but only the abbreviated version. 

"Are you all right?" Harry asks, voice sleepy.

“I'm fine,” Eggsy quickly says. He hasn't had nightmares in a while, but suspects they'll become a common occurrence for a bit. A quick glance at the clock tells him that he needs to wake up—in four hours. “Just…stuff. Go back to sleep.”

“Nightmares?” Harry asks, sitting up too. His hand drifts towards Eggsy, then retracts.

Eggsy shrugs, trying his best to sound nonchalant. “A little.”

“I know something about those,” Harry says.

“Does anything help?” Eggsy asks, lying back down and folding his arms across his chest, feeling his heart beat rabbit-fast. Merlin had talked him through some of those dreams, just like he did during missions, after a particular one that made Eggsy go to him, hoping for a magical Kingsman remedy.

 _Unfortunately, there's no pill for that,_ Merlin had said sympathetically.

_What's the cure, then?_

_Time._

"I try to think of something else, something calm." Harry's quiet for a moment. "Sort of like painting a picture that I can easily step into instead."

Talking like this is already starting to help. "Like what?"

"There was a cottage my father had before he died, before my mother and I moved to London," Harry says. His voice is hushed. "It had a copper sink in the kitchen, grout on the tiles, and out the window, you could see grass, long stretches of it. I used to play there when I was a child, with my mother watching me from the kitchen window or simply following me outside herself. And in the fields, there were a lot of flowers. Wildflowers—pink and white and purple—dotting the green. The fields were so wide that you could run for miles. Nothing like what you’d see here.”

Eggsy feels his eyes closing, his mouth opening for a yawn, but forces himself still. Harry's voice makes him to stay.

“There were butterflies, and I always used to follow them as far as the property line. They were all sorts of colors. Orange and black, blue and white, yellow and brown. Fluttering over the flowers...” Harry pauses, and the bed shifts as he rolls over to his left side. If Eggsy closes his eyes and concentrates, he can feel Harry’s warm breath on his ear. “Even at a young age, I could tell some of the species apart. There was one with yellow wings with black spots, eyes at the end…”

Eggsy allows Harry's voice to pull him back to sleep, and for the rest of the night, dreams of butterflies.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Eggsy slips out at the agreed time. Luckily for him, his mum and Daisy are out, so there are no questions for him. 

He doesn’t take a car. Instead, Eggsy walks, phone in one hand with the earbuds in, even though he’s not actually playing any music. His clothes are neat enough to pass muster in this neighborhood but not so flashy they’re drawing attention. Anyone who looks at him sees just another millennial out around town, no one to really pay attention to.

And that’s just what he needs.

When Eggsy reaches the door, he knocks in the distinctive rhythm Merlin showed him only a year ago and waits casually, scrolling on his phone for good measure.

Several locks click, and Eggsy quickly steps through the open doorway before Roxy, right hand hidden inside her jacket, closes it behind him.

“Glad you found it,” she says. Her hair’s pulled back today, a Roxy code for  _ I’m ready to get shit done. _

“Harry should be here in ten,” Eggsy says, pulling the earbuds out and tucking them into one of his pockets, then does the same with his phone. “Feels weird, skulking around like this.”

“Well, we don’t have the shop anymore,” Roxy says, “and even though our safehouses are intact, we don’t know if Poppy had their locations stored somewhere, so…” She gestures around the place; it looks like a hotel room, scrubbed of any personality whatsoever.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “New safehouse? Already?” He knows Merlin and Amelia worked fast, but not  _ this _ fast.

Roxy shakes her head. “Turns out Merlin was paranoid and set up a few safe locations that were off the radar.” A faint smile is on her lips. “Lucky for us.”

“Lucky for us,” Eggsy echoes, then gestures to the couch. “Want to sit?”

It feels as if they’ve never fallen out of step. He and Roxy plop down beside each other, and she hands him a package of Jaffa Cakes from the coffee table, ripping hers open. If they were in their pyjamas and if there was alcohol, he could have sworn that this was another day off for them, and at any moment, they’d pop in a movie or start commiserating about their personal lives.

But this isn’t normal routine. Instead, Roxy turns to him, tone serious. “You know Harry, and I don’t. Tell me about him.”

“About him?” Eggsy picks at the plastic wrapping, swinging his legs back and forth. “Rox, you know about Harry; he’s going to be—”

“In Kingsman again,” Roxy interrupts, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And I’m guessing you trust him.”

“I do,” Eggsy says firmly.

She takes a bite out of a Jaffa Cake, then says, “My uncle told me a little about him during our trials.” Her voice is carefully measured, and Eggsy wants to tell her how sorry he is about Percival, how much he thought her uncle was a good bloke, but Roxy clearly doesn’t want to get into that now. “He said Galahad was a rebel, but he was Arthur’s right-hand man most of the time. Stubborn. Rash at times.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy admits. “But his brain still works, Rox. I couldn’t have done half I did without him.”

“Merlin told me about the first mission, the one in Italy,” she says, doubt in her voice. “You say he’s better now—”

“And he is—”

Roxy quickly raises her hands. “Eggsy. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—”

“Nothing ever good follows that sentence—”

“But are you  _ sure _ ? That time in Poppyland, that could be a fluke. If he’s going to be an agent…” she hesitates before saying, “Eggsy, his eye is gone.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t do  _ anything _ ,” Eggsy says indignantly.

“Still, that’s going to be hard in the field,” Roxy patiently says, putting the Jaffa Cake package on her lap. “And with his hallucinations and coordination and depth perception and effects from the amnesia and being cooped up for over a year—”

Eggsy finds himself tensing, already on the defensive, even though logic tells hm Roxy’s making good points. “We were sent off after V-Day, and our heads weren’t completely straight on, either.”

“None of us had brain damage,” she says quietly. “Look, I know how much you care for him. I just want to know this is  _ Galahad  _ saying he’s all right, not Eggsy.”

Eggsy stares at her. “Are you saying I’m, what? Emotionally compromised?”

“I remember,” Roxy says with sympathy and wariness in her voice, “that you were the one who lived in his house for a year, never changed a thing in there. My uncle said that you even  _ acted  _ like him when you were Galahad. He used to tell me that if you squinted and tilted your head,  _ you  _ were like Harry, alive again.” She places a hand on his arm. “You took his death hard. You didn’t even go to the funeral.”

“He wasn’t dead,” Eggsy says. He had been prepared, suit neatly hung on the door and everything, but in the end, couldn’t bring himself to go to the service, couldn’t bear to say goodbye.

“But you didn’t know that,” Roxy says.

“I—” Eggsy begins to say, then closes his mouth. He wants to say that he had known for certain, but most of that had been denial. Even when he could say Harry’s name in past tense, he couldn’t progress beyond that.

Roxy looks at him solemnly. “And I remember that big row you and Tilde had.”

“And I don’t want to talk about that,” Eggsy says stubbornly. In any other situation, he’d just walk out of there. “You promised you wouldn’t bring it up again!”

“That’s because I didn’t know he’d be  _ back, _ ” she retorts.

Eggsy’s opening his mouth to reply when they’re interrupted by a series of knocks on the door, and Roxy gives him a  _ we’re not finished  _ look before getting up to deactivate the locks.

Harry enters the room, carrying a white paper bag and a cardboard tray of what look like coffee cups, umbrella handle crooked over his arm. He looks like an ordinary businessman heading to a morning meeting—except for the glasses with the blacked-out lens.

“I thought we would all like some breakfast,” Harry says, then looks at Eggsy, slouching on the couch, and Roxy, arms folded across her chest. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s great,” Eggsy says, just as Roxy says, “Yes, fine.”  

“Right,” Harry says, with a trace of skepticism in his voice, before depositing everything on the kitchen table. “Shall we get started?”

It’s their turn to tell Roxy what happened—him and Harry and Merlin—and even though Roxy knows the bare bones, she needs the details to get up to speed. 

After everything, Roxy glances at the tablet displaying Merlin’s face and asks, “You said that this…Champ was going to send an American agent. Do you know them?" 

“Tequila.” At Roxy's disbelieving look, Merlin says, "The alcohol names you'll have to get used to." 

"Unless he takes a knight's title," Roxy says, then furrows her brow. Eggsy knows that she's thinking of Percival.

"I think he's still Statesman," Eggsy quickly says. "Just on loan." 

Looking a bit more relieved now, Roxy nods. "He's the one you first ran into?" 

"Kicked our arses," Eggsy mutters, disgruntled.

Now, Roxy looks interested, leaning with her elbows across the table. "Now that's something I'd like to see. Wouldn't say no to a spar." 

In reply, Eggsy grunts. He doesn't imagine sparring with Tequila any time soon—at least, not a friendly one.

"Is there a good reason why we shouldn't trust him?" Roxy asks, and it’s so similar to what they argued over about—albeit with a different person—that Eggsy stays silent.

"It's possible that this isn't just a helping hand," Harry reasons. He looks at Merlin, folding his hands. His cup of tea has been untouched the whole meeting. 

"You're talking about a spy," Eggsy says, and with those words, confirms why Tequila isn’t here at their first meeting as the new Kingsman. "Collecting intel. Reporting back to Statesman." 

"While that may be true," Merlin says calmly, "we can hardly refuse him." There's clear meaning behind his words that they couldn't afford to. They need allies, need financial support, need to get back on their feet. 

"So, we spy on  _ him _ ," Eggsy determinedly says.  

Harry nods. "That would be a reasonable course of action.”

They exchange glances, and Eggsy can plainly see that Harry’s distrust of Statesman is still going strong, too soon after holding him in a cell for a year and after Whiskey’s betrayal.

Eggsy’s got his own reasons—being skeptical of anything that seems to be a gift horse with no strings attached is one of them—and wishes Ginger or Champ were going in Tequila’s place. Yeah, he’s sore about Tequila kicking their arses, and no, they didn’t exactly cheer when Champ initially paired them together for Glastonbury, but he still can’t forget Tequila threatening to roast his balls off or pointing a gun at Harry.

“You of all people might be surprised,” Merlin says, with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You and Tequila might actually get along.”

“Not bloody likely,” Eggsy says with feeling. 

“Not exactly the best attitude with our new alliance,” Merlin comments. 

Eggsy frowns. “You trust them?” 

“I do,” Merlin says firmly. “Not to say that caution isn’t warranted, but Champ appears honest, and Ginger…” He pauses, and Eggsy can swear he’s choosing his words very carefully. “Ginger I trust, at least. Don’t you?” 

Eggsy thinks for a moment, then slowly nods. Yeah, out of everyone, he likes her the most. 

If only Ginger was coming instead of Tequila. 

“All the same,” Harry says, still not looking convinced, “I would advise not to share all of our secrets.”

Merlin narrows his eyes, tone gone a bit cooler. “Of course not.” 

What passes between them seems like a whole conversation, and Roxy and Eggsy shift uncomfortably in their chairs. 

“I trust  _ you _ , then,” Harry says at last. He reaches for his tea. 

“And I trust you,” Merlin says. “That means that in my stead, you are in charge.” 

Eggsy’s head whips around to look at Harry, and he notices Roxy doing the same thing. 

Harry frowns, but only says, “Very well. Will I still have a new knight’s title? I seem to recall confusion over my and Eggsy’s shared code names.” 

“New knight’s title?” Eggsy echoes. He looks at Merlin, vehemently shaking his head. “He can have Galahad back; it’s his, anyway.” 

“I won’t take what’s rightfully earned, Eggsy,” Harry says.

Eggsy retorts, “I can say the same thing,” sensing that this is going to be the bed argument all over again. 

Merlin, thankfully, breaks in: “Eggsy, you will retain your title. We will find something appropriate for Harry. In the meantime, let’s talk about where we’re setting up shop...” 

* * *

“You’re back,” Tilde says that evening, with a tired smile. She looks like she’s been out, with her black silk blouse and hair pulled back—probably at another meeting or another memorial for Poppy’s victims who hadn’t gotten the cure in time.

“Been back for a few days now,” Eggsy confesses. He’s sitting on the couch at his mum’s house, watching Daisy play with her dolls and plastic houses, muttering under her breath as she gives Barbie a tattoo with one of her markers. “I know I said I’d let you know when I landed, but…”

Tilde’s still smiling, but it now looks painfully thin. “No, it’s okay. I guess you’ve been busy?” 

“Yeah,” Eggsy says stupidly as Daisy picks up her play scissors and starts taking them to Ken’s hair. “Going to be busy for a while. Um.”   

His proposal hangs between them like a ghost. Tilde hasn’t mentioned it, and that’s so unlike her that Eggsy wonders if she heard it at all. They’d been together for a while—longer than anyone he’s been with, really—after V-Day, as people who were clinging onto each other in the wake of a tragedy. But it became more than a balm, something that grew into a bond. 

In another lifetime, it could have been something more.

So he babbles to fill the silence, talking about how the Americans are moving in and how everything is going to need rebuilding and how his mum and Daisy are doing. 

When he finally wraps it up and asks how she is, Tilde looks off to the side, biting her lip before saying, “I’m all right, but Papa is ill. I…he’s hasn’t been the same since the blue rash—since V-Day, really.” 

“I’m sorry,” Eggsy says, and he means it. Her dad may have been pompous, but Eggsy knows he loves Tilde. 

Tilde furiously swipes at her eyes with her sleeve, taking a few breaths before continuing, “Mama might step down, but for now, she is still queen. But one day…” She shakes her head. “Sorry, I don’t want to think about it. I can’t.”  

“It’s okay.” Eggsy could shoot himself. Nothing about that is okay. “Listen, Tilde, do you want to—I can c—”

“I’ll stay in Sweden,” she says simply.

At first, he doesn’t know what she means. “I mean, I can come visit you there. I don’t know when I can get away; we’re now starting to rebuild and all, but I—”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Tilde seems to sit up straighter, and her eyes swivel to face the camera, face him. There’s still red on her nose, a few stray tears trying to make their way down her cheeks. “You will stay in England. That’s where you’re needed. And my people, my family—they need me here, too.”

“Tilde?” 

She smiles, but this time, it’s sadder. “This is goodbye, Eggsy. I called to tell you that.” 

That’s all they have to do, all they have to say, for this to end. He still can’t believe it. He wants to sit down, but finds that he’s frozen in place. Numb. “Tilde…” 

But there’s nothing he can really say. “I’m sorry,” he manages. 

“Me too,” she says, voice soft. “Goodbye, Eggsy.” 

And with that, the call disconnects. 


	5. Chapter 5

As if the day couldn’t get any worse, Eggsy discovers that Daisy’s decided to give herself a trim while Tilde was breaking up with him.

He has to tell his mum right when she gets home from her shift that his sister cut off half of her curls, Daisy beaming like she’s done the cleverest thing in the world. Her reaction is to stare in horror, actually putting her hand over her mouth. “What...what happened?”

“Haircut!” Daisy proudly proclaims. She even gives a little twirl, showing off the damage: neatly chopped on one side, uneven wisps of hair around her forehead, and a near bald spot right by her left ear. 

“Not by me!” Eggsy holds up his hands defensively before his mum can say anything. “I’m sorry, Mum; I wasn’t watching her too closely, and--”

His mum shakes his head, picking up Daisy and inspecting her from all angles. “Well, at least she didn’t cut it all off.”

“I hear a bob is in?” Eggsy offers weakly.

“Don’t you start,” his mum says, with a sigh. She briefly runs a hand through what’s left of her daughter’s hair. “Well, it’s salvageable. Daisy, love, we’re going to have to fix this.”

Just as she’s sitting Daisy in a chair, there’s a knock on the door. Eggsy quietly sets his watch and creeps towards the entrance, first checking the peephole before swinging it open. “Hey, Harry.”

“Oh, dear,” Harry mildly says when he takes in Daisy’s new look. “What happened here?”

“Experimentation?” Eggsy replies sheepishly, as his mum turns her back and starts rifling through one of the drawers for scissors. He then lowers his voice. “Kinda my fault. Want to get out of here? There’s a good fish and chips place down the road.”

* * *

The restaurant is crowded tonight, so it takes a while to get a table, but once they sit down, their server comes over, grinning when he sees Eggsy. “Hey, bruv,” Brandon says. “Good thing you’re in my section; if someone tells me that they want six different substitutions or try to put their hair in the food and want a free meal, I’ll…” He shakes his head, then seems to notice Harry; confusion crosses his face. “Who’s he?”

“He works at Kingsman,” Eggsy says. He’s really not in the mood for questions. “Just taking him out.”

Brandon doesn’t let up, though. “Oh, the tailor’s, yeah? Good thing you weren’t in them bombings, bruv.” He turns to Eggsy. “Lucky us, yeah? You were in Sweden and I forgot I had that extra shift…”

It takes all he has not to shudder. Brandon had no part in Kingsman, and they’re both very lucky that Eggsy’s mistake hadn’t cost his friend his life. “Same here, mate.”

“Well, don’t be a stranger, Eggsy. Come over again sometime, yeah?” There’s a call from across the restaurant, and Brandon quickly whips out his notepad. “All right, what would you like?”

“Usual for me,” Eggsy says.

Harry doesn’t even look at the menu. “I’ll have the same.”

“Cool, then,” Brandon nods. “Two beer-battered fish and chips, two pints. Any apps?”

Eggsy looks at Harry, who shrugs helplessly. “Whatever you like.”

“None for me yet,” Eggsy decides. “Thanks, Brandon.”

Nodding, Brandon claps Eggsy on the shoulder before moving away--but not before glancing curiously at Harry, still in his suit and tie.

“Brandon always was a bit on a better track than me and Jamal--and Ryan,” Eggsy adds, trying to push his friend’s death at the back of his mind, another person lost to V-Day. He hadn’t been fast enough… “Maybe you should’ve recruited him.”

“All the same,” Harry says, “I’m glad you ended up at Kingsman.”

“Same,” Eggsy admits. “Got my mum and sis away from Dean, too, so that’s a plus. Pay ain’t bad.”

Harry narrows his eye. “Where is Dean nowadays?”

“Jail.” Eggsy shrugs. “Saw that file you put together. Helped out a lot.” When Merlin had passed it on, telling Eggsy Harry had actually went through and looked up everything Dean was accused of, he could hardly believe it. Harry’s threat hadn’t been a bluff after all.

“It was the least I could do,” Harry says. “I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner.”

“Well, he’s gone, and that’s what matters.” Eggsy nods in thanks when Brandon plunks two pints on the table, hurrying away to a crash near their table, shards of glass clinking across the floor. Someone is shouting, apologizing over the din. “His mates got picked up, too, or just scattered.”

“I’m glad,” Harry says, sounding sincere. “It seems like your mother and little sister are also happy in their home. Do you stay there often?”

“No, not since…” Eggsy stops. He remembers the fight, remembers Tilde watching him storm out the door, remembers his mum putting him up for the night--and remembers the current situation. “Well, a few months ago. But no, not really.”

Harry looks at him, clearly seeing that he’s hit a nerve. “I’m sorry, Eggsy.”

“No, it’s…” Eggsy sighs, staring down at his pint. He can’t hide it forever. “It’s just...Tilde. I got some news today.”

Alarmed, Harry asks, “Is she all right? Did she…”

“No! No, Harry, she’s fine. It’s just...she broke up with me.” Eggsy lets out an awkward laugh. “Well, technically, we were broken up before, but this was just official, I guess.” He could probably use another drink. “Fuck. I dunno.”

Harry’s gaze is very hard to read. He looks like he did that night on the way to Cambodia, steadily pouring martinis without meeting his gaze. It had been the two of them, alone, but so different from last time--the room not so bright and warm, the prospect of death looming over them, the too-forced _Let’s go save your girl._

Like Eggsy, Harry’s staring at his drink. “I’m sorry,” he says, the picture of a compassionate friend. “I knew you loved her.”

“Kinda fell down on what you told me.” Eggsy really wishes the food will get here soon--or someone would come over and refill his pint. “The whole _having something to lose is what makes life worth something_ speech.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Harry says. “It’s a hard life to balance. Most of our agents weren’t married, save Alastair and James.”

“They were in the same game, though.” Eggsy stares down at the table, at his hands, knuckles still scraped from fighting Charlie. “Fuck. What chance do we have? What chance do we got for a normal life?”  

_I had no ties… Never experienced companionship. Never been in love._

Harry raises his hand, seemingly to touch Eggsy’s outstretched palm, but instead, it rests on the surface just inches away from his jacket sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“It ain’t your fault,” Eggsy says, then raises his head as their food finally, finally arrives, along with a refill of their drinks.

So he misses Harry’s soft, “Yes, it is.”


	6. Chapter 6

The tailor shop and its grand dining room are still blown to bits, though the debris has been cleared since he and Merlin left. Eggsy already misses the familiarity of it, sitting at his usual place beside the flickering holograms of the knights, with Merlin at the forefront, tapping his clipboard to project images on the screen above the fireplace. He misses the organization of the black folders with the files contained within, MISSION OBJECTIVE typed across the top in neat letters. He even misses groans at his jokes or impersonations.

Instead of the porcelain tea set and biscuits served on a silver tray, there’s paper cups of tea—coffee for Tequila—and several takeaway bags with breakfast pastries and crumpled napkins. Instead of sitting on carved antique chairs and a long table, there’s a standard scratched kitchen table and chair set—the couch or something will have to be moved in order for another person to fit. Instead of tablets and folders and Merlin, they have laptops and pads of paper and Harry. 

Not that, of course, he minds the last part, but it’s still weird to see Harry at the head of the table, sitting stiffly in place. Everyone’s dressed in their suits, except for Tequila, who only has a white button down and dark trousers, glasses on. 

“First order of business,” Harry says, “our cover stories.” He clears his throat. “We’ll be promoting a lifestyle brand: fine alcohol and fine tailoring. Customers will be able to purchase the Statesman brand, as well as whisky from our new Scotland distillery, at Berry’s and Bros. Merlin already made contact with them on my behalf, and they are happy to do it.” He nods to Tequila, who’s sipping his coffee. “An American investor will be visiting, forging our partnership, and getting familiar with us.” 

Tequila grins. “And getting accustomed to doing business in jolly old England. Wear a penguin suit, too, like y’all.” 

Eggsy notices Roxy raising an eyebrow at Tequila’s drawl, but she only replies, “As long as you don’t wear that with it.” 

Tequila tips his cowboy hat at her. “Shucks, ma’am, I thought I can be a walking symbol of company diplomacy.” 

“If that means we also have to wear the hats, no, thanks,” Roxy says. She gives Eggsy a brief eye roll across the table. 

“I second that,” Eggsy says, reaching for a raspberry danish. “The glasses are bad enough.” 

Tequila frowns. “What’s wrong with them?” 

“That style died out in the eighties,” Eggsy says. He takes a bite and wipes off his sticky fingers on a nearby napkin. “I think Eddie the Eagle wore them last. Plus, they make me look like some kind of pervert.” 

Tequila tilts his head, considering. “Yeah, true. Like one hanging over at a library, ‘justing his crotch and breathing too hard.” He lowers his voice into a husky growl. “ _ I can feel your heat. _ ”

“If we could get back on topic,” Harry interrupts, as Roxy and Eggsy exchange looks across the table. “Tequila, you’ll stand out like a sore thumb in that hat. Once the resources are made available, bespoke suits and oxfords will be provided for you. Until then, you’ll have to deal with the emergency ones stored in your safe house.” 

“Fair enough,” Tequila says, then, “Can I keep the boots?” 

Harry huffs a short breath. “No.” 

Tequila mock-pouts, but Harry ignores him, moving onto the next topic: “The distillery’s management needs to be sorted out. Champ says the negotiations are underway, but someone will need to be there on hand to oversee the beginning process, as well as help with the…installations.”

“Do we decide now?” Eggsy asks, startled. Already, he’s hoping not to be chosen to go. He doesn’t want to leave London so soon, be sent away with no familiar faces. 

“No,” Harry says, “but it’s something to consider. I suspect I must stay behind in London, and when Merlin gets back, he needs to be here as well.” 

Eggsy looks at Tequila and Roxy. Both of them aren’t exactly leaping to volunteer, but not outright reluctant. “I guess we can…put in a word when it’s all set up, yeah?” 

Harry nods. “Next, we will need to figure out what to do about the tailor shop and subsequent properties. I believe Lancelot has information?” 

“Yes, Arthur.” Roxy leans forward and turns her tablet, showing some blueprints. “Amelia has records of everything that went into it. We were able to heed off the local police with the domestic terrorist excuse and made it look like it’s been passed to MI-6, which it hasn’t, of course, but I suspect they’re investigating. Amelia, though, said she’s working on that.” 

“What about the tunnels and all that?” Eggsy asks. “I can’t imagine we can just hire a regular construction crew.” 

Harry shakes his head. “No. But the Berlin branch has employees, if I recall. They can do it.”

“And Statesman, too,” Tequila adds. 

“That’s right,” Eggsy says, feeling better already. Yeah, it’s going to be hell to deal with, but they’ve got a lot of people willing to help. “Makes sense.” 

“You know where we are; it’s only fair,” Tequila adds jokingly. 

Harry looks skeptical, but only says, “Very well. But I doubt the manor can be salvaged. Built from scratch—that would take a lot of time.” He looks over at Eggsy, and Eggsy knows why; they’re looking at a place for them to stay. Might as well add another. 

Roxy clears her throat, sitting up straighter in her seat. Her voice is tight as she says, “I think I can come up with a place.” She looks squarely at them. “James inherited a house in the country years ago, and my uncle maintained it, even after…after everything. I don’t think they’ve used it in a long time, so it’ll need restoring.” 

“Roxy,  _ no _ ,” Eggsy says. Fuck, he’s already lived in Harry’s house for a year, wallowing in his grief. Does Roxy need to be reminded of her own every day of her life as a Kingsman? “You don’t have to.” 

“I know I don’t,” Roxy says, a bit sharply. Her eyes are slightly wet, knuckles clenched white around her tablet. “But it’s just going to sit there otherwise, collecting dust. Might as well get a use out of it. I think it’ll be suitable, correct, Arthur?” 

Harry nods. “Thank you, Lancelot. We will make a visit and look into it, but I’m sure it will suit our purposes.” His words seem businesslike, but Eggsy can detect the empathy and warmth behind it. 

Roxy senses it, too. “Thank you.” 

“We will be focusing solely on rebuilding,” Harry says. “So far, no missions. Even with Statesman’s…generous offer, it’ll take a while to get back on our feet.” 

“I’ll contact Amelia and ask when she can fly out or send people over here,” Roxy says. 

“That’s what I was about to suggest, Lancelot,” Harry says, looking a little relieved. “Tequila, please familiarize yourself with Kingsman equipment. I will ask Merlin to forward you a manual. Get to know London and explore the city. And Galahad—”

Eggsy turns towards him. It feels strange to be called anything but his name by Harry. He wonders how Harry feels about that, talking to someone with a title he no longer has. 

“Galahad, you will visit our contacts—Lock and Co. and Berry and Bros.—and familiarize them with us again. You will let them know of our new American partnership.” Harry smiles at him. “I’m told by Merlin that you are rather popular.” 

Eggsy shrugs modestly. Except for some of the knights, he’s gotten on very well with everyone else, the people who work behind the scenes and never step forward to take credit. He’s never admitted, not even to Roxy, that he’s felt more comfortable chatting with Pete the driver than Arthur or Bors or even Percival. 

“You will, of course, have to come up with an explanation for my newfound presence.” Harry’s lips flatten into a mirthless smile, “I  _ am _ legally dead, after all.” 

* * *

“I didn’t think about that,” Eggsy says, while later walking home with Harry, “you being…officially dead. For the papers.”

Merlin had taken care of everything up to the point where the only involvement Eggsy had was sitting down and signing. He had wondered what the solicitor thought, all of this going to someone like him. He’d dressed up in one of Kingsman’s suits, hair neatly combed and with Merlin by his side as the executor of Harry’s will, careful to speak in his posh accent. 

“I mean,” Eggsy says stupidly, “I never thought too hard about it. I couldn’t.” 

He avoids Harry’s glance, pretending to be staring at passerby. Harry doesn’t know how much of  _ him _ Eggsy had kept, down to the butterflies on the walls and the stuffed dog. The only thing he’d been able to take down were the tabloid covers, and he kept putting off painting the walls with their faded spaces until Tilde stopped mentioning it. 

“You lived in my house,” Harry finally says. “I’m surprised you didn’t sell it, move to a more suitable place.” He pauses before adding, “You could have. I gave you full ownership.” 

_ Full possession of Mr. Harold Andrew Hart’s financials and property,  _ the solicitor had read,  _ is to be given to Mr. Gary David Unwin.  _ He recalls the stifling room, sitting up in a new suit, aware of Merlin’s steady presence beside him. There had been an untouched cup of tea on the desk. Tilde had just started texting him, his mum and sister were finally away from Dean, Kingsman was slowly rebuilding, but all Eggsy felt was numbness. 

“Why?” Eggsy asks. It’s not exactly the best question to ask right in the middle of the street, but in a way, it’s easier, not having to be alone in a room with Harry with nowhere to put his eyes. 

Harry stops beside him, and Eggsy then notices the crosswalk in front of them. Two businessmen and a few women, one talking on her mobile, are standing nearby, waiting for the traffic to clear. One lady looks at Harry’s left eye, then quickly turns away, eyes pity-soft. 

Eggsy is the only one who notices how Harry’s jaw tightens, but says nothing.  

The walk signal flashes. Harry steps forward, and Eggsy follows suit. Their arms brush, and it isn’t until they’ve walked a few blocks that Harry hasn’t answered Eggsy’s question.  

“Surely,” Harry finally says, “you read the letter.”

Eggsy frowns. “What letter? You mean the will? ‘Cause it was just all legal babble to me.” 

“What do you mean?” There’s genuine confusion, almost distress, in Harry’s voice now. “Merlin had it on him to give to you. Or rather, a clue where to find it.”  

Shock stops his heart. “I…never got anything like that. What did it say? Where was it?” 

“It was behind one of the butterfly boxes,” Harry says. “The swallowtail in my room. Surely—surely, you moved my belongings. It would have fallen out.” 

“I…” The gig is up. He takes a deep breath. “I never moved it, Harry.” 

He finally chances a look at Harry, but can’t read his expression, turned to the side, watching more pedestrians on the other side of the street. 

Fuck. A mixture of frustration and countless questions whirl in his head—even brief anger at Merlin. Why hadn’t Merlin given it to him? Did he forget? No, Merlin couldn’t have forgotten. He knew he was fucked up over everything, but not enough for Merlin to withhold something meant for him for over a year?  

And what did it say? Praise for being a Kingsman? More rules about being a gentleman? Advice for the future? What were Harry’s intended last words for him? 

“What did it say?” he repeats. 

By now, they’ve reached his mum’s house, and Eggsy fumbles for a key, turning it in the lock. He steps back for Harry to enter first, and as Harry brushes past him, simply replies, “Nothing you don’t already know.”

“That ain’t an answer.” He ignores JB’s pawing at his shins in favor of Harry, still not looking at him. 

“And why not?” Harry’s tone is flippant, but Eggsy knows better. 

“Because I didn’t know what you thought of me,” Eggsy says. “We didn’t exactly leave at the best of terms. And look, we don’t have to go through that again, but…I’m just saying that I don’t know when you wrote it, if it was after we met or during the trials or—”

“After the twenty-four hours,” Harry says, facing him at last. He’s drawn himself up to his full height, head held high, but there’s nothing intimidating about it. It’s armor, Eggsy thinks, the way he used to face Dean with a sullen look or snarky comment. 

“Before the dog test?” Eggsy asks, nothing accusatory, just a confirmation. 

Harry’s voice is soft. “Yes.” 

The weight of that word settles between them, standing alone in an empty house. They’re facing each other like they did all those years ago, but with both of them in suits this time and in a place neither of them could have imagined.

And just like before, they’re interrupted.

“Eggsy,” his mum calls, opening the door, Daisy trailing behind her, “do you...oh.” 

At her startled glance, Eggsy steps away from Harry; he hadn’t realized they were so close. “What is it, Mum?” 

Harry’s used the distraction slip away, and Eggsy tries not to feel disappointment as his mum starts to talk. 

* * *

“You seem quiet today,” Tequila comments for the third time.

Eggsy only shrugs. He hadn’t slept well yesterday, not with Harry--deliberately, he bets--sleeping with his back towards him all night, but he’s not telling Tequila that. 

He can’t help but wish he was with Harry today, though. Today, Roxy and Harry have flown out to her uncle’s old manor to check it out, and it was Tequila’s idea to meet up in person to discuss their re-introduction to Kingsman’s business partners. 

It had been Eggsy’s idea, though, to have the meeting over several pints. It’s near the remains of the tailor shop and in a private room where other businesspeople can hammer out private deals, but he’s not taking Tequila to the Black Prince anytime soon. 

“He wear you out?” 

Eggsy snaps out of his thoughts, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. “What?” 

Tequila shrugs. “Y’all live in the same house. What?” he asks innocently, as Eggsy narrows his eyes at him from across the table. “You come and go together, your shared codenames, that whole thing when you first saw him, the way he l--” Suddenly, the Statesman pauses, then laughs right in Eggsy’s face. “Well, fuck. Guess I let the cat out of the bag.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eggsy demands.  If it weren’t for the fact they were in a private place, Eggsy would throw off his jacket and roll up his sleeves. 

Tequila only waves it away with a careless hand and suggests, “Let’s talk about our pitch to the wine people,” ignoring Eggsy’s glares for the rest of the afternoon. 

* * *

“...Fucking  _ dickhead _ .”

“Eggsy, is that any way to talk about a colleague?” 

“It is if he’s a dickhead,” Eggsy mutters, mindful that of the closed door. Once he’d left the pub, he’d stormed back home to ring Merlin for their scheduled debrief, only to turn it into a griping session. 

“What did he do?” Merlin asks, and damn him, he looks too amused to be taking this seriously. 

Sighing, Eggsy shakes his head. Fuck if he’s going to relive the afternoon  _ again _ . “Never mind, Merlin. Anyway, meetings are underway and all that. Strangulation of our American ally is delayed.” 

“I don’t think Statesman would be too happy about Kingsman having two of their agents dead at our hands,” Merlin points out. 

“Had no choice with Whiskey, did we?” 

It’s Merlin’s turn to sigh. He looks rather grave. “Your glasses were recording, so we have a justifiable excuse. Statesman, however, would have preferred him alive--” 

Eggsy stares at the screen, stunned. “ _ Alive _ ? After what he was going to do?” 

“As a prisoner, mind you,” Merlin says firmly. “Champ is also big on reformation.”

“Don’t think it would have done much,” Eggsy sulkily replies. ‘Sides, Whiskey was trying to kill  _ them _ . It had taken all of their effort to avoid getting laser-cut or thrown in the meat grinder or knocked in the head, never mind trying to subdue him.  

“Perhaps,” Merlin says, so calmly that Eggsy wants to shake him. “But we don’t know. The man was driven by grief and revenge, and God knows how that can make people do all sorts of justifiable--if not moral--actions. Sometimes, we can funnel that into doing something productive, but it’s often self-destructive. You after V-Day, for example.” There’s a pause. “Harry tells me that he was driven by something other than duty in Cambodia. He suspects you were, too.” 

That quiets him. “I’m sorry,” Eggsy says quietly. 

“For what?” 

“It was my fault.” Fuck, he’s never going to forgive himself for this. “The land mine. I should have--so you didn’t have to--”

“Didn’t have to?” Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Has Kingsman taught you nothing?” 

“We give a life to save another,” Eggsy repeats dutifully. “But, Merlin--”

“If it was Harry, if it was Roxy, I would have done the same thing.” Merlin looks at him sternly. “What have I said about that chip on your shoulder?” 

“That’s not the  _ point _ ,” Eggsy snaps. “It was my fault, Merlin. I should have noticed! I had the fucking land mine detector--”

“And Harry and I had decades of experience, but we didn’t notice the bomb all those years ago,” Merlin interrupts. He levels a perfectly steady gaze at Eggsy, tablet still clutched to his chest. “Do you blame us?” 

“...No,” Eggsy admits. 

“Mistakes happen in the field, Eggsy.” Merlin says. “All we can do afterwards to learn from them. If you’re going to feel guilty, I can’t stop you, but don’t let this keep you from moving forward.” He lowers his voice. “You’re one of the strongest people I know, but you take too much on yourself.”

Eggsy smiles bitterly. “Are you going to give me the old V-Day lecture?” 

“Do you need it? Never mind, yes, you do.” Merlin crosses his arms. “Eggsy. We’ve lost so much in such a short time, and the damages can still linger on, no matter how hard you try to run from them. But you make a life after. That’s the best you can do.” He smiles softly. “And you did. You got a new house for your family. You got someone who knows both of your lives and shares them with--”

“I don’t have her,” Eggsy interrupts. “Not anymore.” 

There’s a slight pause before Merlin says, sincerity in his voice, “I’m sorry, Eggsy.” 

Eggsy sighs. He feels like he’ll be saying the next sentence for a good few months: “No, it’s my fault.” But that reminds him. “The letter,” he says. “Harry mentioned he wrote me something and gave it to you. What did it say?”  

Merlin shakes his head. “Eggsy, do you think I would read something meant for you?” 

“Well,” Eggsy replies tartly, “you  _ are  _ a spy.” 

“I don’t have it,” Merlin says softly. “I left it in my drawer in my office. In the manor.” 

“Oh,” Eggsy says. It's all gone, then, burned up from that night. Harry’s last words for him are ashes. 

Merlin looks at him sympathetically. “You can ask, you know.” 

Eggsy shrugs. “Easier said than done.” He reaches for the CALL END button. “Thanks anyway, Merlin.”

* * *

 

He decides to end the day with drinks at Roxy’s, just like the old days, and Roxy, to her credit, doesn’t make coy innuendos or attempt grand speeches; she just pours them more. He feels a bit bad that he’s left Harry all alone with his mum and sister, but there was no way he could let Harry join them for this.  

“I’m sorry,” she says, after the round of jelly shots. “Normally, the protocol is to talk shit about the person and their respective gender, but I don’t think it’ll work quite the same in this situation.” 

“And I don’t want to.” Eggsy takes a swig of the blueberry vodka. “We fucked up, but it was mostly me. I told her about Kingsman, but I should’ve told her the other stuff. Should’ve—” 

“Hold on.” Roxy raises her hand. “Look. You may be right, and I don’t want to say  _ I told you so—” _

“Constant communication, being directly connected with a political figure, I  _ know _ , Roxy.” 

“But it wasn’t just you. Okay?” 

“She broke up with  _ me _ .” Eggsy pours himself another shot. “I can understand why. I ain’t even mad. But I’m still…”

“You’re allowed to feel sad, Eggsy,” she says, coming forward to put her arms around him. “Hey. Look, it fucking sucks. She was your first.” 

“No,” he says, words slurring. “She wasn’t.” 

Roxy blinks, but still pats him on the back, then places both hands on his shoulders. Her face is perfectly serious. “Your first actual relationship. Not…hook-ups. Or secondary stuff—that doesn’t count.” 

“I know what you’re talkin’ about.” His head swirls. The vodka bottle, he notices, is half-empty, along with the rum and coke ones. There’s still a shot glass at his feet. “Talkin’ about real love.”

After that, it’s a bit hazy—Roxy pushing a tall glass of water towards him, him slurring something about talking to Mr. Pickle and about not being fair to Tilde and bitching about Tequila, a blanket being thrown over him, Roxy talking to someone on the phone. 

His eyes easily slide shut, and he dreams, all images muddled and confusing—him and Tilde taking selfies with JB and themselves and Mr. Pickle, him reaching for a martini glass, some jazz song playing in time to his feet turning in a clumsy waltz, Charlie’s girlfriend and Tilde arguing as blue veins creep up their bodies, Tilde gesturing at the butterfly cases around Harry’s bathroom, the butterflies breaking free in a hurricane haze, Harry staring at him wordlessly through his eye patch—

And Eggsy’s there, lowering the gun in his hand, as Harry says his name. Eggsy crosses the room, that padded cell, and hugs him, the puppy whimpering between them, Harry exhaling his name again, his hand rubbing Eggsy’s back, and they’re doing what they should have done, should have done a year ago, kissing, soft and slow and sweet—

When he finally comes to, he sees Roxy, still in her pyjamas, making a fry-up. His heart is going as if he’s run a marathon, hair sticking to his forehead, and when Roxy turns her head, Eggsy tries to look as calm as possible.

“Let me guess,” he says, “I made an utter fucking fool of myself.” 

Roxy flips over the bacon, making a sizzling sound. “I’ve seen worse.” 

It’s the way she’s looking at him—more specifically, not looking at him—that makes the pieces fall horribly into place. “You know.” 

“Know what?” she asks, eyes firmly fixed on the pan. 

“Don’t play dumb, Rox. You knew. Merlin knew. Tilde knew. Everyone fucking knew.” 

At that, Roxy finally turns, spatula raised in her hand. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, eyes narrowed, and guiltily, Eggsy notices how pale her face is, steam rising from the sizzling pan, the blanket tangled around his feet. 

“Eggsy,” she says slowly, “I know you feel like shit, but we were not fucking with you. We weren’t laughing behind your back.”  

He apologizes, volunteering to make the rest of breakfast. When they finally sit down, Eggsy asks, “How long have you known?” 

“Since V-Day,” she says. 

He wonders how long she’s been watching him like a ticking time bomb, watching him and Tilde move in together into Harry’s house, watching him and Harry arrive together at her safe house. All that nudging about communication, about being honest with each other, about sharing—that had been her way of trying to fix him and Tilde before it fell apart.  

“You can say it,” Eggsy says. “Y’know—I told you so.”

Roxy gives him a look. “What kind of friend would I be if I said that?” 

“Someone who’s the better spy than me.” 

Roxy shakes her head, but Eggsy notices her hiding a smile. “It just added up,” she says. 

He’s reminded of his conversation with Harry that night, how Harry neatly turned his self-blame around, how Harry walked him through everything.  _ How did you know? _

Now, he asks himself the same question, reexamining every moment with new eyes. The same silver settings, right down to the ridiculous bird. His impulsive move to ask Harry to stay with him. 

_ Oh, fuck, _ he thinks. 

He’s been in love with Harry this whole time, and he’s been the last one to figure it out.

* * *

 

When he gets home, he has to take JB out, and Daisy’s invited herself along. She keeps asking to walk JB, but she sometimes gets distracted and JB takes advantage to start running down the sidewalk, so Eggsy doesn’t think that’s the best idea. 

Instead, he holds her hand, and she cheerfully swings their linked hands forward and back, solemnly stepping over cracks on the sidewalk.  She keeps up a steady stream of chatter the whole way around the block, and Eggsy, head still a bit sore, simply nods. 

Finally, Daisy looks up at him. ”Are you okay, Eggsy?” she asks.  

“Yeah,” he says, finding it to be true. “I am.”

* * *

 

It’s when they turn down for the night that Eggsy says, “Sorry I bailed on you.” 

He can hear Harry shifting in place. “I understand.” 

“Well, sorry,” Eggsy says, “and well, it made me realize a few things.” He takes a deep breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Somehow, this seems easier in the dark like this. “I did love Tilde. But I could let her go. I realized that now.”

“Losing her broke you,” Harry says, repeating those words on the plane. 

Eggsy shakes his head. “If Tilde died, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself,” he says. “But I was broken before that.”

Harry begins to protest. “Eggsy—” 

“No,” Eggsy says insistently. “It was when you were shot.” He still lies flat on his back, hardly daring to watch Harry’s reaction. “Chester offered me a chance to join him. You know what I said? I told Chester that I’d rather be with you.” He smiles tremulously. “Guess that was the most honest I’ve been.”   

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, and Eggsy worries he’s fucked up, that he’s gambled on everything and lost. 

So he startles when Harry finally says, tone apologetic, “Eggsy, I lied to you.”

For a moment, Eggsy thinks,  _ That’s it? That’s your answer?  _

But somehow, he knows to hold that back, to let Harry continue. “Okay,” he says calmly, “about what?”   

“When I said I thought about nothing when I was shot, when I said that I have never been in love. But I did tell you a few things that were true. One of them…I experienced loneliness and regret.” Every word of this is making Eggsy’s heart race, but he doesn’t dare say a word, doesn’t dare break the spell, doesn’t dare let this chance dissolve like a soap bubble. “When I came back to Kingsman, it was with no joy, only duty. There has to be more than this. More than Kingsman. Something worth living for.” He rolls over, looking at Eggsy. “And that’s you.”  

He can’t stand the suspense any more. It’s true; it’s all true.

When they kiss, it feels like it was meant to happen all along. There’s no fireworks, no explosions, no shouts. It’s only him and Harry, together again.

“There is another thing,” Eggsy says when they pull away. Harry looks worried, so Eggsy strokes his arm comfortingly. “You did have ties. You had Merlin. My dad. Lancelot. Percival.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “And me now, I guess.” 

Harry smiles and gives him one more kiss, stroking his face. “And you,” he agrees. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Y’know,” Eggsy says rather lazily, “that’s a good idea. Retinal eye scanner, maybe for the new dining room.”

They’re watching a children’s film, something Eggsy claimed he hasn’t seen for years but seems to know every line of dialogue. Daisy’s sitting on the couch with them, leaning forward, eyes wide, and placed carefully between them. Occasionally, when a fight scene comes on, she punches the air with her small fists and once kicks a leg out so suddenly that she nearly hit JB.

“Good idea,” Harry says, then stretches an arm across the back of the couch, just above Eggsy’s shoulders. He’s reminded of the subterfuge of secondary, the obvious hand in the middle of movie theatre seats and significant glances across the classroom. “But we’ll need far more advances in technology for our own suits.”

“No capes,” Eggsy jokes, leaning back against him. His mother had gone into the kitchen for popcorn; otherwise, they’d be sitting as stoic as judges. His sister, engrossed in the film, doesn’t seem to notice.

“I should think we’d look rather ridiculous,” Harry says. “Hardly conspicuous.”

Eggsy smirks, eyes flitting towards him. “I think the spandex would suit you.”

Harry doesn’t have a chance to retort, removing his arm from around Eggsy’s shoulder as Ms. Unwin comes back into the room, plastic popcorn bowl balanced in her arms. “Enjoying the movie?” she asks, casually enough, but Harry can feel her gaze boring into his skull.

Harry and Eggsy fervently agree, and for the rest of the evening, keep their hands to themselves.

* * *

 It would be more of a honeymoon period if Ms. Unwin wasn’t in the house. Of course, they don’t do any more than steal a few kisses in their shared bedroom with the door closed, but Harry suspects Eggsy’s mother already knows. They don’t do anything blatantly obvious, but there’s something different in the way they move around each other. There’s no longer that barrier of uncertainty between them; it’s like being in the field again, weaving around each other seamlessly.

He’s sure Merlin--now back in London with new prosthetics--knows, too. His friend doesn’t say anything, but there’s a secretiveness to his expression—the same glances Roxy and Tequila keep sending them. There has been no official declaration, but there doesn’t need to be, not with the shop being rebuilt, Alastair’s manor being restored, and the preparations for reopening their tailoring business.

It’s been a bustle of activity, a flurry of duties, and for once, things seem to be looking up.

* * *

That’s one of the reasons why they’re starting to look for a place to live. Eggsy pulls up a few different websites and bookmarks a few possibilities. They’ve even wandered around in an open house, with spacious hardwood floors and new, renovated rooms. The realtor used the oldest trick in the book—putting cookies in the oven and letting the sweet scent infuse the whole house—but it’s still not right.

The office they’re in now is small, with a lot of potted plants. There had been a mechanical fish stuck to a plaque in the loo, something Eggsy took a selfie with, Harry doing his best not to laugh when Eggsy covertly texted him a picture underneath the table.

The realtor, Elizabeth, had been recommended by Roxy, someone who had sold her a townhouse—before it had been destroyed, that is—with very few questions about her personal life. She seems to approach selling in an analytical way, saying very little and letting the houses speak for themselves.

“We’re looking for a house in London,” Eggsy explains. He’s not in a suit today, but in dark grey slacks and a white button-down. “Just enough space for the two of us, plus a guest room, preferably on a quiet street.”

Something warm unfolds in Harry’s chest at _the two of us._ “Maybe a yard, too,” he adds. “We have a dog.” And, he imagines, Daisy would like somewhere to play when she comes over.  

Elizabeth nods, scribbling on her notepad. “Are you two from London originally?”

“We had a house in Stanhope Mews,” Harry says, “but we temporarily relocated to America for a brief time, so we decided to sell. Our company recently transferred us back to London.”

Well, that is true, in a way. Better than _the house got taken out by a missile._

She also makes a note of that, then asks. “Would you like a house somewhere in that area?”

Eggsy shakes his head. “No,” he says, “we’d like someplace new.”

They hand over their list they’d cobbled together last night with Eggsy’s tablet balanced in his lap, and Elizabeth looks it over, nodding in approval.

"Looks like a good start," she says. "When do you want to begin looking?" 

* * *

Eggsy admits that he knows very little about buying a house, had only trailed after his mum after she’d gotten out of that flat. She was the one who talked about equity and escrow and fuse boxes, looking up flats on her phone, and inspecting basements and staircases with a cautious eye, while Eggsy tried to keep Daisy from climbing on the furniture and from yawning at all the technical terms.

“I never bought a house myself,” Harry in turn confesses to Eggsy on the way to the first one. “I inherited my parents’ house, you see, and lived it in ever since. This is going to be a new experience for both of us.”

When they drive up to the first house, Elizabeth is waiting for them outside the iron gate with roses twining up the bars in tiny clusters of pink. Before they go in, they hold a small conference of sorts, keys dangling from her hand. “It’s small,” she admits, “but there are wonderful period features and a private garden. It’s also rather close to London, so both of you can get to work easily.”

Eggsy nods slowly, but Harry asks, “How many rooms?”

“Five,” Elizabeth says, “not counting the backyard.”

His old house had close to nine, but Harry allows Elizabeth to lead them inside.

There’s no traditional receiving area; a step into the house is a step into the front room. There’s a rather expensive-looking television set-up near the door, a couch directly facing the screen. Opposite of that is a fireplace, which Eggsy runs his fingers along the mantle. It’s polished and smooth with simple designs.

“One of the period pieces,” Elizabeth says.

As they continue to walk around, Harry notices that there’s not much of a formal dining room, only a table and chairs wedged alongside one of the walls; it seems very much a slap-dash, open floor plan with very little organization.

“The kitchen’s nice,” Eggsy replies, turning his head.

 _It’s orange,_ Harry thinks.

“You can paint if you want,” Elizabeth says, as if she knows what’s going on his mind.

“ _I_ like it,” Eggsy cheerfully declares, not seeming to notice Harry’s wince. Other than the colour, though, the kitchen seems sleek and modern with metal-brushed cabinets, marble countertops, and a stove without gas burners. Right outside is the yard they were promised, accessible through a screen door.

Eggsy seems pleased, wandering around the lush, green yard with abandon, pointing out the patio and footpath leading to what looks to be a slightly-large garden shed in the middle of the yard. “It can be an office,” he suggests, “or a playhouse for Daisy. She’d love all the flowers, too.”

“An office,” Harry echoes. It would be a pain to go outside just to work on his computer at a proper desk, if not cramped and miserable during London’s rainy days or scorching heat. He imagines an umbrella stand near the doorway for this purpose.

“It has Internet connected there, along with a heating system,” Elizabeth explains to Eggsy, who’s admiring the various vegetables growing along the fence and shed  in clay pots. “The current residents use it as a recording studio, so it’s also soundproof.”

They go in, and it’s larger than Harry thought--one open room dedicated to filing bills and filling out forms and displaying memorabilia, then another leading to said recording room, with dark foam on the walls and an array of instruments and an elaborate work station with a desktop computer. Eggsy looks longingly at a particular red electric guitar, but doesn’t touch, only looking around the area, pleased.

“The bedrooms are upstairs,” Elizabeth says when they walk back into the house, after a very brief tour of the downstairs bathroom with all the basics, minus the butterflies pinned on the walls. “One master and one guest.”

When they peek in, Harry says, “Oh. No en-suite bathroom?”

“I’m afraid not; it’s down the hall instead,” Elizabeth replies, and Harry suddenly misses his en-suites, neatly connected to the rooms with maximum privacy. He misses the office with its tabloid covers with the large wooden desk and hidden compartments. He even misses his kitchen, as cramped as it was.

Everything familiar to him had been wiped out, and he’s just beginning to realize it.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“It’s stupid,” Eggsy says a few weeks later when they're side by side in bed. They’ve got the lights off, talking quietly enough not to disturb his mum and sister down the hall; Daisy had thrown a fit about having to go to bed earlier because she was sure they were “having fun” after hours.

The look his mum got would have been funny if it didn’t involve him and Harry, but luckily, no one brought up the implications.

“It isn’t,” Harry replies soothingly.   

They’d visited yet another house that day, with two stories, sprawling gardens with a greenhouse, a firepit in the patio, and a round, tower-like room with a master bathroom. Eggsy had looked around, jaw open the entire time, and leaned against one of the windowsills, joking, “I can lounge here and wait for my knight in shining armor to come.”

“Is this our house, then?” Harry had asked, amused.

"I dunno," Eggsy replied honestly. "All of them look nice, but..." He had shrugged casually, and even though they’d talked about a small, practical house, he was susceptible to a tower as much as the next person. 

So Harry had inquired about the price--and it was rather high, to say the least. _Really_ high.

Now, Eggsy sighs. “I really like that house,” he admits. “But we’re going to be away so often. When are we going to have time to garden? Or keep the property maintained?”

“We can negotiate,” Harry suggests.

Eggsy’s face lights up, but just as quickly, it fades. “No,” he says, shaking his head, “it’s not practical.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry suddenly says.

Confused, Eggsy lifts his head slightly from the pillow, propping a hand under his chin.  “For what?”

Harry’s looking at the ceiling. “When I pictured us living together, I thought I could give you the world.”

“Is this really over my whinging about some fucking house?” Eggsy asks.

“I can't offer you anything.” Harry looks as if he’s steeling himself. "I no longer have a house, money of my own—"

"Fuck, Harry," Eggsy exclaims. "You think I care about anything like that? Do you think I’m going to walk away because you don’t…” He cuts himself off, certain that Harry doesn’t like being reminded that he lost what he had after V-Day, that they’ve seemed to switch places in life. “I don’t want all that,” he concludes. “I want you.”

"And is that really such a good thing?" Harry retorts. "Eggsy, I'm half-blind, claustrophobic, an insomniac, practically in charge of a bloody sinking organization, and—"

Eggsy actually sits up, blankets falling at his waist. “Stop that right _now_.” He then remembers Daisy and quickly lowers his voice. “If this is about money, I can give it back to you. I’ll put it in writing, too, and have Merlin do all the legal shit--”

“I don’t care about that!” Harry protests.

“Then what makes you think I do?”

Harry flinches, but at the very least, turns to face Eggsy. In the slivers of moonlight creeping inside the room, the lines on his face seem more prominent. “This is a big step,” he says softly. “I just don’t want you to regret it.”

Eggsy squeezes his hand. “I won’t.”

* * *

They end up buying the first house with a fireplace, a backyard with some fruit trees, and a cozy kitchen, modestly priced.

And it’s _theirs_.


	9. Chapter 9

It takes a bit of time to negotiate the price, hire an independent inspector, sign contracts, shake hands, and allow the owners time to move out, but all of that is worth it when they step into that house.

With new eyes, Harry sees that orange kitchen--really, tangerine--is a charming, warm color , while the window looks right out into the yard. The trees in the back are already heavy with fruit, perfect for pies and jams and quick picks. Outside, their office is larger than it seems from the inside, and it's away from the house in case something happens. 

And, as Eggsy once said, it was big enough for the two of them. With a few more touches, they can truly make this their home, not just Harry's or Eggsy's alone. 

They don’t have furniture yet—an oversight lost in their frantic packing and organization of Kingsman—but both of them make do. So far, they’re sleeping on what blankets and quilts they have in the master bedroom while the furniture trickles in, ordered from an online catalog; neither of them have the time or patience for actually going into a store and bickering over colour clashes.

What they do have are these: a couch that converts to a rollaway that sits in their front room. A dining table and chairs, a bit of a smaller set than Harry’s old ones, are sorted out, with weapons hidden underneath. And boxes, lots and lots of boxes filled with things Ms. Unwin had surprisingly decided to contribute, still piled in the kitchen.

They do budget, though, because Eggsy’s technically the one paying for all this and the legalities of Harry’s wealth still have to be sorted out. Harry cedes most of the final say to Eggsy, who looks a bit chagrined when expectant employees first turn to Harry to sign the paperwork.

It does sting a little, knowing that he has little to offer Eggsy, but doesn’t say a word. Part of him thinks this is a dream, and only a foolish man would want to wake up.

* * *

“The bed is here,” Eggsy says cheerfully, gesturing to it dramatically.

He looks at Eggsy, smiling and still in his Kingsman suit. Eggsy has changed. Yet, Harry can still see the same softness, the capacity for mercy that stayed his hand during the final test. He can’t help but notice the times it was most prominent was when it was just them two in the room.

But—

“Oh.” The bed.

They haven’t dared, not under Ms. Unwin’s roof. And still staring at Eggsy, Harry remembers all of those stolen kisses and hand-holds, along with the time they spent separated by doubt and death. They seem to culminate in his mind; he’s gone through studies and therapy sessions about solitary confinement, knows what skin hunger is.  

And it fits. His hands want to touch the warm, breathing flesh of a human being. But it’s not just any human; it’s Eggsy. He wants to feel his pulse beating steadily underneath the vulnerable softness of wrists and neck and throat, the warm breath on his exposed flesh, the muscles tense and relax like the ebb and flow of the tides, the gun calluses and softness of Eggsy’s hands, his clever and deft fingers, the short strands of parted hair…

“I want you,” he says. Even though the words seem possessive—heated, even—to him, they are vulnerable. He wants Eggsy; he’s wanted him for almost two years, even when he didn’t know who Eggsy was.

And realizes Eggsy's been waiting for him all this time.

Eggsy's looking up at him, anticipating but hesitant, as Harry leans in and kisses him, hands reaching up to cup his chin.

Seamlessly, they back up against the bed and fall on it, still kissing, as Eggsy pulls him down on top of him. They only separate long enough for Harry to pry open the buttons of his shirt, for Eggsy to slip out from his own, and the night is theirs.

* * *

At the corner of Harry’s eye the next morning, he sees Eggsy squirm a little in place and has to hide a smile.

Meetings are hardly a favorite activity for the knights, used to the field where nearly every second was an adrenaline-raising heart pump or being crouched in waiting, taut in anticipation. Sitting around a table discussing droll topics, such as budgeting and Merlin’s consistent “please try to bring your gadgets back in repairable conditions” lectures, are not exactly hair-raising. They were a bane during his years as Galahad, growing worse with Chester, but a necessary evil.

To make them more bearable, he’s laid out tea and finger foods, which have gone appreciated, but most of the knights still have slightly glazed looks, even Roxy, who is at least attempting to hide her boredom.

Silently, as Merlin’s wrapping up his discretionary funds speech, Harry puts one hand on Eggsy’s knee under the table. Harry can easily cover the entire kneecap, feeling the hard bone and slight give underneath the wool. Head slightly snapping upwards, Eggsy looks at Harry, startled, and Harry’s just removing his hand when Eggsy’s own comes down and gently anchors Harry’s palm to his knee.

The callused skin and heat across Harry’s knuckles send a secret thrill up his spine, even though, of course, this is far from racy or untoward. No, he feels a bone-deep rush of affection, and if they weren’t in a meeting, Harry would kiss him.

“Harry,” Merlin intones, his gimlet eye upon them, “would you like to contribute?”

“Of course,” Harry says smoothly, then taps his tablet, revealing the excel spread on the projector. “In the past month, our funds were these…”

His hand remains on Eggsy’s knee the rest of the meeting, and no one is the wiser.

“Please refrain from feeling up Galahad,” Merlin says, after everyone’s cleared the room.

“I did no such thing,” Harry says, a bit affronted but unable to hide a smile.

Merlin shakes his head, but thankfully doesn’t start interrogating. “If Chester was in charge--”

“It wouldn’t be happening at all,” Harry fills in. “Prick.”

“Yes, and you’d be sent to HR. But we don’t have it at the moment.” Merlin picks up his tablet as Harry begins to walk away, hoping Merlin doesn’t have a pile of paperwork to foist off on him. “I do feel, however, I have to at least let you know that as Arthur, you’ll have to not let your feelings cloud your judgment.”

Harry pauses, hand right on the doorknob. “Arthur?”

“There appears to be some confusion,” Merlin says calmly. “Of course, I expected this, but your denial runs deeper than I thought.”

Harry looks at him. “Will you please get on topic?”

“Very well, then.” Merlin says. “You are Arthur.”

Harry’s stock-still, even though Merlin’s words should come as no surprise. His and Eggsy’s code name confusion still hasn’t been resolved, but he’d already planned to take another one—perhaps Percival, in honor of his old friend.

“You’re proposing me,” Harry flatly says.  “For Arthur? You’re joking.”

Merlin’s tone is perfectly dry. “Since when do I ever joke, Harry?”

“You joke.” It’s a feeble retort, though. “I’m sure you’re more capable—”

“Harry, I may be good, but good enough to hold two positions without losing my head?” Merlin scoffs. “You’re not going to be alone, Harry. We may have lost most of our agents, but Poppy didn’t bother with our staff, with Berlin. And we have something we didn’t have last time it happened—an ally.”

“A foreign one that we’ve only known for a few weeks,” Harry retorts.

“One that kept you alive for a year,” Merlin returns. “Kingsman would have simply shot you.”

Harry tightens his lips, but doesn’t say anything else.

Merlin sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Look. I know that you don’t want to be stuck behind a desk for the rest of your career. Eggsy told me what you did out there, showed me the footage. I’m not doubting your capabilities—“

 _You did,_ Harry thinks, but only for a moment. This is not the time to get into a petty squabble.

“But Kingsman needs a leader. You’re our most experienced agent. Roxy and Eggsy are intelligent, but they’re still very young. Tequila is out of the question, of course.” Merlin looks at him, expression serious. “It has to be you, Harry.”

“You’ve been training me,” Harry says stupidly. Perhaps Merlin didn’t need that long to recover or help train the new Statesman recruit. He can see the past months so clearly: Merlin allowing Harry to use him as training wheels, slowly pulling away until Harry was riding on his own.

“All right,” Harry says, every inch the gentleman Kingsman trained him to be. “I accept.”

* * *

Harry dreams once more of his mother, that disagreement in the kitchen, his pleading _I have to’_ s.

“ _Have_ to? No, you don’t _have to._ Do you think this is noble, falling on your sword—”

Harry remembers several variations of this argument, repeated day after day until he shipped out. She had lobbied, telling him she could get a loan from the bank to get him something to pay for his books and other necessities, listing death statistics and interviews from BBC, and reminding him that he couldn’t even shoot a fox at one of the hunts last year with a group of boys. How could he throw his life away like this?

But this is different from all those years ago. This time, his mother faces him, placing both hands on his shoulders. Her eyes are the same color as his, but there seems to be something different about them—a look of warning, as if she knows what’s to come. “You don’t _have_ to, Harry. You don’t.”

In a flash, Harry sees the faces of people he’s loved, people he’s lost, people he’s killed. He sees the first man he’d ever shot, red and grey splattered on the ground, transforming into butterflies that flutter away into a cloudless sky. He sees a man with already thinning hair salute him from across the room, then another with whitening hair taking his seat at a table, pouring a glass of brandy. He sees a small boy playing with a snow globe, a medal glimmering around his neck. The medal flickers, a blinking sun, bright against the swimming blue and shattered glass and spreading crimson.

“I don’t have to,” Harry says, and he sounds older, not like the brash seventeen year old he was. “But I’m going to.”


	10. Chapter 10

It’s a sticky-warm morning, sunlight streaming through the curtains and JB snoring in his doggy bed in the corner. Eggsy knows that outside will be perfectly clear and blue, and that he and Harry are going to be late to the morning meeting Merlin’s arranged. Part of him knows that they’re going to have to get up and leg it to the shop without breakfast, but another stronger, more selfish part doesn’t care. 

“This is one advantage of having a proper bed,” Eggsy says, leaning contently back on Harry’s chest. The sheets are tangled around their legs, some of the covers kicked onto the floor. The back of his neck and chest feel damp, but he barely notices. 

“And a door that locks,” Harry responds, tracing up and down his arm, also in no particular hurry to get up. 

Eggsy smirks. “Oh? What are you intending to do with some privacy?” 

“If you can’t say it, you can’t do it,” Harry replies, the little shit. 

He’s about to reply with something equally cheesy-- _ I can do a lot of things  _ is the top choice--when his phone chimes--probably Roxy or Merlin yelling at him to get up and start the day. 

“Do you want to get that?” Harry asks, a clear  _ fuck it  _ in his voice. He still hasn’t stopped stroking Eggsy’s shoulder. 

“Mm, forget it,” Eggsy says, just as a series of  _ ding _ s--he counts five--happen. He sighs, reaching reluctantly towards the nightstand, cursing his past self for turning the notifications on. “Time to start the day, I guess--” 

With one look at the notifications, Eggsy stiffens under Harry’s hand and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “I have to take this,” he says hurriedly, swiping at the screen frantically. “Can you tell Merlin I’m going to be late?” 

* * *

“Heart attack,” Tilde says bitterly. “Can you fucking believe it? I knew he was doing badly, but I thought…” There’s a choked-off sob, then a hiccup. “Shit. Shit.”

Eggsy’s silent for a moment. He knows better than to say  _ it’s okay  _ or any other stupid platitudes. “I’m so sorry.” 

“And just when he’s pronounced…” Tilde struggles, then skips over it, voice becoming angrier and angrier. “They’re starting to swarm Mama and me, asking about funeral arrangements and which church to do it in and the stupid amount of flowers and carriages and crowds--God, Eggsy, I have to hide in the fucking bathroom so I can get just a  _ second  _ to mourn my father--” She takes a deep, shuddering breaths. “I know I have to get back out there and help Mama, but I can’t.” There’s more shaky breaths, then, “Thanks for listening, Eggsy. I just needed someone that wouldn’t ask stupid questions about which organ players to use.” 

Eggsy clutches the phone tighter, pacing around the kitchen. He’s still in his pyjamas; Harry had hurried off to the shop, promising to make his excuses to Merlin. “What can I do? Do you want to come to London for a bit?” 

“No, I have to stay here.” He hears heavy knocking and a Swedish expletive from Tilde. “But thanks.” 

“I can come over there,” Eggsy suggests. “I can--” 

Tilde sighs. He can picture her shaking her head. “You’re busy, aren’t you?” 

“Not for this,” Eggsy says determinedly. He remembers being left behind in the quick sweep of funeral preparations, being set in front of a telly or with relatives he’d never seen before while his mum wept in the other room or called various people on the phone. The medal had been pressed into his palm for days. “I can be there if you need me.” 

* * *

“And you need leave for exactly how long?” Merlin asks, crossing his arms. The only remains of the morning are the empty teapot and cups on the table and Roxy, her tablet clutched in one hand and glasses still on.

“Just for a few days,” Eggsy promises. “I’ll do anything you want--double duty, schmoozing investors, you name it. But we’re just rebuilding the shop and the manor; there aren’t even any missions--” 

“I believe you were signed up to go to the distillery, which you would know if you made it today,” Merlin cuts in. “You and Arthur. A knight is needed to oversee the beginning processes.”  

Eggsy shoots a pleading look at Roxy, who’s studiously looking at the wall. 

Merlin coolly says, “Lancelot is busy with helping restore the manor.” 

“Tequila, then,” Eggsy says--and yeah, he’s desperate. 

“The person Harry doesn’t want to be alone with the most,” Merlin replies dryly. “I thought I was being nice, giving you and Harry some time alone in another country.” 

Any other day, he’d be jumping at the chance--and yeah, there’s a pang of regret in his chest at the missed opportunity of walking hand-in-hand and exploring the Scottish Highlands and their pubs. “I know, Merlin, and I’m sorry. But Tilde’s dad died, and I have to be there; she’s all alone.”

Merlin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not touching this with a ten-foot pole. If you can convince both of them to go together without ending in missing limbs or other permanent damage, then you’re cleared.” 

* * *

Tequila seems as eager to go as Roxy. “What, do you have another vacation planned?”

“Funeral,” Eggsy says sharply. 

That actually shuts Tequila up. “Whose?” 

“My…” Eggsy sighs, knowing how awkward this will sound. “My ex-girlfriend’s father’s.”  

Tequila whistles slowly. 

Annoyed, Eggsy starts to walk away. “You know what? You can just say no and not fuck around around, okay?” 

A hand claps down on his shoulder and spins him around. “I didn’t say no,” Tequila says defensively. “If it’s important, go. I’m an asshole, but I’m not a scumbag.” 

Eggsy relaxes, but still frowns warily. “And I’m guessing I’m owing you in the future.” 

“Consider this a one-time deal.” Tequila shrugs. “It’s a funeral, after all. You two were close?” 

“No,” Eggsy admits, “not really. But she’s really broken up about it. It was her dad, after all.” 

Turning away, Tequila huffs, shaking his head irritably. “I wouldn’t know.” 

This time, Eggsy shuts up. “I’m sorry.” 

"I'm sorry, too." Tequila says, with a scoff. "Sorry that he didn't go faster." 

Sighing, Eggsy thinks of Dean, still out there in the wind but thankfully, not near his mum and sister and him. "I know what you mean." 

“Do you?” Tequila asks dryly. “Scum of the earth, typical white trash womanizer and drifter, talk of the trailer park. Was known only through him up until I became a rodeo clown--not much of an improvement." He shrugs. "But Champ saw something in me. I don't know what it was. Yet...here I am." He then glances at Eggsy and laughs. "But it's not like what you and Harry have." 

Eggsy's cheeks grow hot. "Hey, we were actually bonding for a second." 

Tequila laughs again, then pats his shoulder. "Just to clarify, though. He's like a father to me, Champ is. Like the dad I should have got." 

“Mum's the parent I got,” Eggsy says. “I missed my dad, what could have been, but...it's now that really matters.” He pauses. It’s too much to get into now--the whole story with the grenade and how Harry ties into all this and the wankstain of his stepdad. “Don’t you think?” 

“It’s the now,” Tequila echoes. For a moment, he looks more serious than Eggsy’s ever seen him. “I guess. But that’s how I went through until the blue rash. The past matters.” He then smirks, seemingly over his epiphany. “Maybe when I go back, I’ll piss on his grave and call it even.” 

“Not bad,” Eggsy says, and thinks that Tequila isn’t so bad, either. 


	11. Chapter 11

It doesn’t go over as well with Harry. His face is sourer than Daisy’s when she found out Eggsy was going to miss her fifth birthday. “You’re going to Sweden, and I’m going to be stuck with the American.” 

“Sorry, Harry, but I told her I’d be there,” Eggsy says, throwing another pair of trousers in his suitcase. Tilde had gotten a hold of her people and asked them to schedule a ride from London and to the palace, and he doesn’t want to be late because he procrastinated in packing. “Please don’t be mad.” 

“I’m not mad; I’m just…” Harry’s obviously struggling to form the right words. “I looked forward to this.” 

“I did, too,” Eggsy reassures him, even though he was the last to learn about the Scotland trip. He kicks the suitcase shut and turns around, placing both hands on Harry’s shoulders. “I promise I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” 

There’s something like hesitancy in Harry’s kiss, but Eggsy soon forgets that when Harry pulls him closer.

* * *

The funeral had been arranged fairly quickly. Eggsy had stayed almost invisibly by Tilde’s side, offering her support whenever she needed, whether it was whisking her away when it got too much or simply listening. Grief had made them forget the distance, if only for a bit.

Now, the day has arrived, and the bells are ringing solemnly. There’s not a cloud in the sky. Outside Tilde’s window, the royal guard is at ready, with a crowd already gathering around the gate and down the street.  

“It’s almost time,” Eggsy says softly.  

“I’m not ready,” Tilde says dully. She’s still barricaded in her room, standing by the large mirror and wearing a somber black dress and jacket. Her hair’s pulled back from the sides, revealing pearls glistening on her earlobes, along with a string of matching ones around her neck. 

She now fingers the necklace, twirling it around one finger. “Papa gave me these for my birthday years ago. He said they were appropriate for a Crown Princess...future queen.” Tilde shakes her head and begins to pace around the room. “Queen. I've trained for this my whole life. I never thought it would come so soon.” Her hands tremble. “Fuck, Eggsy. I don’t know if I can be a queen.” 

“Yes, you can,” Eggsy says firmly. He goes up to her and takes her by both hands. “Tilde, you stood up to Valentine, even tried to pull an escape attempt. You did all you could after the blue rash, visiting hospitals and giving speeches and telling people not to give up. Out of all the top brass in the world now, you’re doing pretty good.” 

“Not a high compliment.” Tilde pulls away, pacing again and wringing her hands. He’s never seen her this agitated. “I’m not ready. Papa was supposed to abdicate. There was supposed to be a proper coronation ceremony, a real transition in a few years. Instead, there’s a fucking...God, I hate politics, hate this world sometimes, but I was born into it, wasn’t I? I--”

A knock comes from the other side of the door. “Your Majesty?” someone calls. 

Tilde whips her head around. “Just a minute!” she snaps. 

“See?” Eggsy says. “You can be a queen.” 

That actually gets a laugh--albeit choked--out of her, and she wipes at her eyes before taking a deep breath, straightening up. Her whole posture and expression changes, just like Eggsy does before an undercover mission, and he can see the weeping mourner slip away and the Crown Princess--no, Queen--take her place. 

“I can do this,” Tilde says, and takes his arm. 

* * *

“Thank you for being here,” Tilde says for the tenth time that day. She looks ragged; the funeral had taken almost all morning and late afternoon, and there was still a dinner--albeit a semi-private one--to attend soon.

Now, they’re tucked away in one of the many rooms in the palace, away from all the chatter. Privately, Eggsy’s thankful for the peace; shaking hands and murmuring endless niceties had been exhausting and vaguely--he’ll never say this out loud--dirty. It’s duty, he knows, but everything, no matter how private, seems to belong to the country, nothing for Tilde and her mother. 

They’re sitting on one of the cushioned window-seats, shoulder to shoulder. The curtains are drawn so no one can peek up, and the door is firmly closed and locked. 

“What are normal funerals like?” Tilde asks distantly. She smooths down the hem of her dress, looking more tired than anything. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to one before.” 

“Like this, but smaller,” Eggsy says. If he closes his eyes, he can remember his dad’s, only blurrier. Flashes of images, really, of white flowers and dark clothes and someone giving him a biscuit that crumbled all over his trousers. He had been worried about his mum scolding him about it, just as she’d done with him taking the medal and slipping it into his pocket. Now, Eggsy wonders if anyone from Kingsman showed, or thought about it, and brushes it away. “People going around, talking about the person who died. Nicest clothes. Drinking.” 

Tilde flicks her thumbpad with a nail. “I’d love a drink--a smoke, really. But what would people think? What would they say?” 

“They would say you lost your dad,” Eggsy says softly. “They would understand.” 

“Will they?” Tilde shakes her head violently. For a few long moments, she’s silent, flicking her thumbpad like a match against a box. “That’s what we argued about, that last time. Another one of his speeches about what’s expected of me and another one of me saying…” She shakes her head again and gets up, then sits back down. “Fucking hell. It wasn’t even important, Papa and I. We’ve always had those arguments. But just before…”

“I know what that’s like,” Eggsy says softly, patting her on the arm. 

She frowns, leaning her head back against the window. “With your dad? You were seven, weren’t you?” 

“Yeah, but not him. Harry.”

The spell is broken, and she pulls away from his touch. “Oh?”  

“We argued, said some shitty things, but…” He stops. Tilde’s dad’s not coming back. There’s no need to say it. 

But it’s enough for Tilde. “There’s a difference,” she says shortly. 

“Yeah, but I still thought he’d died.” He stops, realizing how harsh, how careless that sounded. “Tilde, I’m sorry. I didn’t…” 

“Yes, well…” Tilde crosses her arms. She’s not looking at him now. “When you wouldn't move out of that house, it should have been my first hint.”

So, now they’re talking about this. “You knew, too, didn’t you?” 

“I wasn’t sure at first,” she says archly. “I thought at first it was--some father-figure thing.”

“No,” Eggsy says. “No, not at all.” 

“You wouldn’t sleep with me in his room,” Tilde says, and okay, they’re  _ really  _ doing this. “You talked to his dead dog. You refused to change  _ anything _ .” Her voice rises. “I thought you wanted a life with me. I thought we would move in someplace new together. We could have been just...us, without the titles or the job or the legacies.” 

Tilde then stabs a finger into his chest, suddenly furious. “Do you know how much you  _ fucking  _ hurt me? Do you know how much I tried to help you, to at least talk about him? It wasn’t about erasing Harry Hart; it was about remembering him and moving  _ on _ . And you wouldn’t because you were obsessed!” Tilde shakes her head. “What would have happened if he didn’t come back?” 

“Don’t say shit like that!” He realizes he’s standing, too. “I would have married you, just like I told you in--”

“Oh, great, you’d marry me if there was no other option.” Tilde shakes her head again, scoffs. “There was no room for me, was there? There was just Harry. I was...some placeholder.” 

“No!” Eggsy cries. It’s all spiraled out of his control, and they’re saying shit to hurt each other, to burn bridges, to release all the hurt that’s been coiled inside for over a year. “Tilde, fuck, it’s all coming out wrong. I did love you. But I fucked it up. I fucked it up, and…” He stares at his own hands, rough palms and scarred knuckles. He then looks at her hands, folded on her lap, no traces of scars or calluses. “If it was different. If we were just...what we wanted, just two people living in London with no titles or Kingsman or legacies.” 

“But it wasn’t that way,” Tilde says softly. She goes to the window, as if to draw back the curtain, then steps away. Her hand goes to her necklace. “And both of us are too stubborn to walk away.” 

Eggsy twists the signet ring around his pinky. “Yeah,” he says dully. “We are.” 

Tilde takes a deep breath, gaze still on the curtains. With that, the fight seems to have gone out of both of them, out of the room. “You said something that night that made me think when you didn't want to throw anything away. You said you owed him everything. Is this what it's about? Owing him?”

“It ain't like that,” Eggsy says. “I love him. And Kingsman is my home. And...he is both. Kingsman and home.” It’s the most honest thing he’s said to her. 

And she knows it. 

“I want you to leave,” Tilde finally says. Her chin is high, hands at her sides, eyes seemingly dry. The pearls shine in the dim light, bold against the black of her dress. “Sneak out the back, and try not to be seen. I don’t want any rumors.” 

Eggsy understands. “Of course.” He then does something she’s never asked him to do: bows to her, neatly at the waist. “Your Majesty.”


	12. Chapter 12

“You know,” Tequila says, “if you wanted to share a bed, most people just ask.”

Harry’s thoughts are a string of curse words. He’d forgotten about the bloody reservations he’d asked Merlin to make and forgotten no one had changed them at such short notice. Staring at the bed pushed neatly up against the wall, Harry says flatly, “I’m calling up a cot.”

“Will we have to wrestle for it, or will this be a rock, paper, scissors deal?” Tequila asks, just as Harry resignedly sets down his luggage and reaches for the hotel’s phone. It had been a mistake to allow Tequila to deal with checking in; the bastard probably knew about the situation and wanted to see Harry squirm--that, or make Harry give up the bed. It was only gentlemanly to offer to take the less comfortable option, but Harry isn’t feeling so generous tonight.

It had been a tedious flight, with Harry staying on his tablet as much as he could to avoid talking, while Tequila prattled on and on incessantly and occasionally played loud games on his mobile. Harry wondered why Merlin sent Tequila with him, of all people; it was perhaps an insipid ploy for them to bond.

“So, flipping a coin, maybe?” Tequila continues, cheerfully ignoring Harry’s silence. “Eeny meenie miney mo? Do you know that one? ‘Catch a tiger by its toe’? Is that a thing in Britain?”

Harry dials the number as fast as he can and makes his request, then puts the phone back on its hook. He thinks longingly of the bottle of aspirin in his bag.

“Thumb war? Pick a number between one and one hundred? Give me something to work with here.” Tequila sighs melodramatically. “I’d suggest fight to the death, but that won’t be good for any of our orgs. And I might get my balls cut off by your boyfriend.”

Harry finally turns to him. “You just might.”

“Payback for threatening to burn his off,” Tequila says, with a careless shrug. “Can’t blame the guy.”

“And when was this?” Harry demands. He had to give it to Tequila; whatever reservations he had about Kingsman or its agents, he kept to himself, but that didn’t mean brawls were entirely exempt beyond the official meetings.

Tequila smirks. “Before you got your memory back. Merlin and your guy burst in with their rescue mission, I beat ‘em, and we threatened each other before the whole friendly orgs thing came out. All in a day’s work. Got to say, should have known something was between you and Eggsy, the way he was squealing like a stuck pig for you.”

Harry glares at him. There’s more to the story, of course, but he’s not going to give his whole life story to this infuriating Statesman. “What’s between Eggsy and me is none of your business.”

Tequila holds up his hands defensively. “Hey, didn’t know and didn’t think it was exactly under the radar. You two are supposed to be spies, but whoo-ee. Ain’t foolin’ no one. But I got to say, I thought Kingsman would be uptight about agent-on-agent; Statesman’s even a little strict on that. Hell of a lot of paperwork.”

“It was discouraged,” Harry says shortly. There’s a rule in the book somewhere, but hardly anyone gave a shit, including Chester, of all people, as long as no one was obvious about it.

There are good reasons, or so they say: that Kingsman wouldn’t have to deal with suspicious family members, that an agent would remain uncompromised and undistracted, that no one would have to choose between personal loyalties and duty. But people are allowed occasional moments of selfishness. If someone wanted happiness, who was he to stand in their way?

“Sucks, but understandable,” Tequila says.

Harry only makes a dismissive noise.

“But you don’t seem to care. There’s Roxy and her girlfriend, you and Eggsy, Merlin and Ginger…”

“Merlin and Ginger,” Harry echoes.

Tequila smiles. “Yeah, well, maybe. Ginger and I still talk; seems like she likes him and he likes her. Age of the geek and all. And they seemed to bond when y’all were out in the field.” He looks around the room casually. “Rooting for Ginger, though, she barely takes time for herself.”

 _As does Merlin,_ Harry thinks. While he isn’t exactly jumping up at the news, he’s not going to tell Merlin what to do--as if he could. All the same, he’s unsure of the complications of an intra-agency relationship, what it could mean for future interactions.

Thankfully, before Tequila can add more commentary, there’s a knock on the door. Harry gratefully goes to retrieve the cot and quickly assemble it as far away from the bed as possible.

“You know what,” Tequila says suddenly. “I’ll take it.”

“Really?” Harry says. Well, he’s not going to object, but he didn’t expect Tequila to make the offer.

“Hate saying no to a bed, but I was taught to respect my elders.”

Something in Harry’s chest prickles. _Elder,_ like he’s almost halfway to a service home. Is that what Eggsy thinks of him--even in passing? Surely, he’d wake up one day and realize he shouldn’t have moved into a house and a whole new life with an old man. Maybe he is realizing that, being in Sweden with his ex-girlfriend, his own age.

“You can order dinner or whatever you want, but I’m going to bed, since we’re getting an early start tomorrow,” Harry says stiffly. “I am an old man, after all, so try to keep it down.”

With that, he shucks off his shoes and collapses onto the bed, turning his head so Tequila can’t see the open frustration on his face.

* * *

The evening passes in irritating bursts of waking up, falling asleep, and waking up again. Twice, there are blurred dreams that seem very real in the moment and disappear as soon as he opens his eyes. He remembers, though: kissing Eggsy for the first time, water closing up over his head, a snap of a bullet hitting him in the eye, shining blades of silver, Eggsy arm-in-arm with a faceless woman, butterfly sketches on padded walls, a high-pitched wail.

He’s gotten used to sharing a bed, so it’s a bit of a start when he comes to. Finally, though, when Harry decides sleep is not visiting him again, he checks his phone. No new messages from Eggsy, besides _in Sweden rn._ He wants to check the news, see if there’s any mention of a young British man with the Crown Princess--Queen, now, really--but resists the temptation.

With some reluctance, he gets out of bed and gets ready, not caring if Tequila is awakened, purposefully taking longer than usual. In the loo, when Harry looks in the mirror, though, he sees an old man who’s barely gotten any sleep, bags under his eyes and lines on his forehead.

 _Stop,_ he thinks. Harry looks down at his phone sitting on the sink, and sighs, typing back to Eggsy: _glad you arrived safely. Let me know what I can do._

It’s a banal response, really, but he puts the mobile in his trouser pocket and tells himself to forget about it. Harry takes another look at the mirror and sighs. There’s more grey in his hair than he recalls. The glasses with one darkened lens still look unnatural. He’s slightly less trim than he was a year ago and suspects being Arthur and growing older will worsen it.

“Bugger,” he mutters.

When he finally opens the door, Tequila’s in his suit, brushing his teeth at the sink. He looks thoroughly uncomfortable--and the ridiculous bowler hat jammed on his head likely isn’t helping.

“Don’t see why you have to wear these to get any respect,” Tequila mutters. “I look ridiculous.”

“You can start by taking off that hat,” Harry retorts.

Without hesitation, Tequila flings it off, leaving it on the floor. “Good. Worst part of the getup. Now what do I next, boss? Shoulders back, spine straight, walk with a book on my head?”

Harry can’t help but smile at the reminder of Eggsy asking about table manners and it leading to other things. It quickly ends, though, when he’s once again reminded why Eggsy isn’t here with him. “A book is more conspicuous than a hat.”

“Did y’all go through manners academy, or were you born with all that?” Tequila waves his hand through the air.  

“Born and bred,” Harry says dryly, but feels a twinge of sympathy when Tequila’s shoulders slump. Oh, hell, he’s getting soft. Or projecting. “A teacher told me to imagine a string on the top of your head, pulling you up,” he suggests, then glances at the clock at the nightstand. “Ready to leave?”

* * *

The distillery seems to be in working order. Someone from the Berlin branch is there to show them around and discreetly point out spots where hidden bunkers and storage rooms and the like will be, then a perfectly ordinary employee takes over to walk them through the actual business part of it.

The day agonizingly goes past lunch, nearing towards dinner, and Harry feels more and more tired as it goes on. Tequila, luckily, chatters enough for both of them, introducing himself and asking questions, practically on his way to kissing babies. He praises the layout, peppers the employee with inquiries about distilling, compares and contrasts scotch to bourbon, runs his fingers on almost every surface, waves at nearby workers, and generally acts like the quintessential chatty American.  

Harry samples the offered scotch gratefully, relishing the burn in his throat. Of course, he’s not supposed to be drinking on duty, but fuck it. Harry deserves it.

It’s the same when they finally go to dinner. Harry had hoped to get their meals separately, but the man clings more than a barnacle, sliding into the opposite side of the booth with a grin. He’s like a puppy, Harry thinks. It was cute when Eggsy did it, but with Tequila, it’s beyond irritating.

When his drink arrives, Harry downs half of it, praying this night will be over. If Eggsy were here, they’d be sampling scotch together, taking a long stroll among the highlands or the cobblestoned town, or making love in that bed. He allows Tequila to talk throughout waiting for dinner about Scotland and Kentucky and alcohol and horses and whatever inane thing he’s babbling about.

“I know you’d rather have Eggsy with you,” Tequila suddenly says, “but I can’t help that.”  

Harry heaves a sigh. He can hear his mother saying _use your words_ and the codes of conduct of a gentleman, but he’s seemed to have less and less patience these days.

“You’ve been grouchy all day, and that’s probably not best for business,” Tequila continues.

Bristling, Harry takes another sip of his drink. “And you’re the expert?”

“Top salesman at the distillery,” Tequila says defensively. “Does the sulking and grunting work in Britain?”

“I’ll have you know that I wasn’t grunting.” It’s not the best response, and Harry knows it.

“Were too.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Uh-huh.”

Before it can denigrate into an immature battle, Harry says, rather roughly, “Very well.” He checks his phone; Eggsy has texted him back about coming back when the funeral was over and nothing else. With a few taps of his fingers, Harry searches the Swedish news, finding mostly the same story over and over again.

Before he can be relieved, though, there is a pithy gossip article about one of the now-Queen’s company and a few sentences of speculation. There is a grainy picture of what looks like Eggsy, close together with Tilde, her arm in the crook of his elbow. Both are in black and so close that their bodies blur together.

Harry shuts down the article and places his phone face-down on the table. They look like the quintessential young couple. This is a mistake, just as Harry had feared; Eggsy will never have normalcy with him. Yes, royalty was hardly average, but Eggsy would have constant support, less controversy, and considerably less danger. He would be set for life--and live a longer one than he would once Kingsman got up and running again.

And Eggsy would fit so easily into his new role: kind and loyal and unflinching. He knew what it was like to not grow up with wealth and privilege, and that alone would make him a beloved member of the royal family. Harry can picture it: an era of compassion and steadiness in the midst of the turbulent world around them.

“Bad news?” Tequila asks.

“In a sense.” Harry reaches for his glass and mentally sighs when he realizes it’s empty. It’s a clear message; he doesn’t want to talk about it, but Tequila either doesn’t notice or care.

“Anything wrong with Kingsman? Eggsy?”

“And you’re suddenly Eggsy’s best friend?” Harry retorts acidly.

“Hey, we’re not attached at the hip, but I don’t want anything to happen to him,” Tequila says. “I’m not Whiskey, you know.”

Harry stiffens at the mention. “I should hope not.” He wonders if Tequila knows exactly of Whiskey’s demise. He wonders if he should mention it.

“No,” Tequila says, “there was a time I considered Whiskey a friend. Was in sort of the same boat I was: tragic past and Champ swooping us up. Turned to different avenues, though.”

“Oh?” Harry says.

“Whiskey sunk lower and lower into his grief, wallowing in it.” Tequila takes a sip of his own drink. “And me, I obliterated it. Or I thought I did.”

Harry remembers Eggsy telling him about the blue rash.

“Go ahead and say what you want,” Tequila says, but there’s a tenseness in his shoulders, waiting for a blow.

“No,” Harry says. He won’t judge Eggsy and he won’t judge Tequila. “Your past is your own.”

Surprised, Tequila nods, then leans back just as their food arrives. “Well, that’s not me anymore, just so you know. I don’t know. It’s like, I’ve been in life-or-death situations before, but somehow, that? Something I could have prevented? Everything changed.”

 _Everything changed._ Such simple words, but true ones. So many events could depend on _if--_ if he hadn’t joined the army in a fit of patriotism and righteousness, if he had seen the bomb on that fateful day that ripped several lives apart, if he hadn’t gone to Kentucky like the obedient soldier he was.

And if he lets Eggsy go--what happens then?


	13. Chapter 13

“FLIRTATION AT A FUNERAL: A FUTURE PRINCE? This is _discretion_?”

"We were just talking," Eggsy groans. He leans back in his seat; there’s nothing like waking up from a plane ride to have your boss shouting at you. "Nothing happened. I don’t see why--”  

"A young man who's been in contact with the Crown Princess, now Queen of Sweden, for a year,” Merlin slowly lists. Eggsy stays still, knowing that if his finger so much as twitched in the direction of the controls of his glasses that there would be hell to pay. “Who’s lived with her in London for an extended period of time. Was, on multiple occasions, in a locked room with her. Seen at her side at a public event. Of course people would talk!”

“Well, it’s not like that!” He feels like this will be something he’ll be repeating for quite a long time. “It’s not like we left on good terms or anything.”

“Even better,” Merlin mutters, “even better, Galahad, to have a member of a royal family who knows of our organization angry at you. Oh, Galahad, you have carried on your namesake, _went above and beyond--_ ”

He looks out the window, wondering if it will be worth it to break the glass and be sucked into the atmosphere. “I fucked up, okay? I’m sorry.”

Merlin sighs. “You’re lucky Kingsman isn’t up and running because you would have been benched. But I _am_ relaying this situation to Arthur.”

Just when it can’t get any worse.

* * *

Eggsy texts Tilde that he’s back in London, even though he’s sure she doesn’t want to hear from him for a while. He doesn’t message Harry; he knows he should, but he’s not ready for yet another bollocking. Merlin’s probably informed him that Eggsy is on his way and fucked up again.

He doesn’t know whether to report back to the tailor shop or go home, so Eggsy chooses the latter, feeling that this way, he won’t run into Roxy or Tequila, who no doubt know about the news and are ready to pounce. If Eggsy wasn’t hauling luggage, he’d just walk, but with reluctance, hails a cab and throws himself in the backseat.

Idly, he looks at his mobile again. Tilde’s read his message, but there’s no response. No surprise there.

The cab pulls over near the curb. Taking a deep breath, Eggsy gets out, thanks the driver, and begins trudging up the walk. He only has to fumble for his keys for two seconds before the door swings open.

It’s Harry, still in his Kingsman suit. At his heels is JB, barking happily at the sight of him and running circles around Harry’s feet. Eggsy goes to his knees and scoops up JB, who licks his face furiously.

“Do you need help with your things?” Harry asks. His face is an inscrutable mask.

“No,” Eggsy says, dragging his bags into the living room. JB follows, panting and wagging his tail, and Harry closes the door behind them. The deadbolt slides with a sharp click.

As Eggsy begins to turn around, a hand on his shoulders pulls him backward and against Harry’s body. Hands slide around his waist, palms pressing lightly on his stomach. He can smell Harry’s cologne as a nose buries into his hair.

Closing his eyes, Eggsy leans back. He’s missed Harry so much, and he’s glad to be away from Sweden, away from the public eye, away from the shitty mistake he made. Harry holding him feels like the most natural thing in the world. Tilting his head back, resting it against Harry’s shoulder, Eggsy feels lips brush against his exposed neck.

He lets Harry do this for about three seconds and turns around so they can properly kiss. Harry’s hands come up to cradle either side of his face as they back up, heading towards the closest wall. God, his hands, those hands that could assemble and disassemble a weapon in seconds, those hands that were so steady against his back that night in the cell, those hands that healed and harmed and loved--

They slide up his back, fingertips brushing up his spine, and Eggsy holds on tight, arms circling around Harry’s waist, rising up on his toes so he can continue kissing Harry. It’s the longest they’ve ever not moved, breathing in each other, firm and possessive and warm.

Harry’s arms lift him higher, higher, and Eggsy instinctively wraps his legs around Harry’s hips, inwardly thanking whoever’s out there that he’s not wearing his KIngsman shoes. His hands hold on tighter, scrunching the wool, but Harry doesn’t seem to care. His face comes closer, his glasses pressing a little between Eggsy’s forehead, hands firm against the small of his back.

Eggsy feels himself being carried, backed into the nearest wall. They keep kissing as he feels tugs on his hair and reaches up to return the favor, even though Harry’s strands are stiff from gel. He expects at some point to be dropped or at least slide a little against the wall, but Harry doesn’t let him go, doesn’t let him fall.

When they pull back, Eggsy raises his eyebrows and grins. “Here or the bedroom?”

“Here,” Harry breathes. “Definitely here.”

“Missed me that much, huh?” Eggsy asks, slowly tracing along Harry’s shoulder.

There’s something in Harry’s expression Eggsy can’t quite place. “Yes,” Harry only says, then moves to kiss him again.

Soon, Eggsy’s put down long enough to shuck off his shoes and start unbuttoning his shirt, and Harry stands in front of him, still clothed. His palm comes up to rest against the wall, just to the side of Eggsy’s head. Eggsy looks up into Harry’s face, then something uneasy comes over him, like stepping on uneven ground. “Harry?” he asks. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Harry says, but there’s a flatness to his voice that prickles Eggsy’s suspicions.

Eggsy pulls away, back against the wall, as Harry’s arm drops to his side. “Seriously. What’s wrong, Harry?”

“Nothing,” Harry insists.

But Eggsy doesn’t buy it. “Yeah? You’re looking like me like you’re...I dunno, at my graveside.” He frowns. “Harry, I was perfectly safe in Sweden. Is this about--did Merlin tell you?”

Harry’s quiet before he simply says, “You and Tilde.”

Eggsy’s jaw drops. “Me and Tilde?” He narrows his eyes. “Fine, I’m sorry I exposed myself, or whatever, but I was just trying to be there for her. She was there for me when…”

“When I died?” Harry finishes archly. He crosses his arms.

“Yes,” Eggsy says shortly. “I thought you’d died. Merlin helped. Roxy helped. Tilde did. I don’t like thinking about it.”

“Neither do I.”

Shaking his head, Eggsy begins to walk away, a bit pissed off. “If you’re going to be jealous, just say that you’re jealous. Don’t make it like I jumped into her bed. It was a funeral. We weren’t exactly having the time of our lives.” He glances down at his partially exposed chest and starts fixing his shirt.   

“You’d have to quit Kingsman,” Harry says bluntly. “You’ve only been on the job for a year, and if you leave--”

“What’s this all coming from?” Eggsy snaps. What the fuck? Was there something in the water in Scotland.

Harry takes a deep breath. His voice is the epitome of forced calm. “Eggsy. If you’re having regrets--”

“Regrets? Are you fucking kidding me?” Eggsy whirls on him. “Look, you know what we did in Sweden? We talked about why we didn’t work out! It was a shitshow! Tilde probably hates me now, and I can’t blame her, but I have to come home to you thinking our relationship is going to implode too?”

“And if it does?” Harry asks quietly.

Eggsy turns the question on him: “Do you believe it will?”

With one word, Harry tears him apart: “Yes.”

“Why?” Eggsy feels like someone’s gone and punched him in the chest. He’s a failure. He can’t make it work with Tilde. He can’t make it with Harry. He can’t make it as a spy. He can’t make it as a normal human being. What? “We spend this time buying a house and moving in and...and you say no? Never mind?” There are so many things Eggsy wants to say, but instead, he turns away, blindly going for the door, eyes stinging his eyes.

He ignores Harry calling after him as he runs.  

* * *

The door swings open, revealing his mum’s surprised face. Eggsy wonders if she can see the rigidity of his shoulders, the faintness of his brief smile, but she only nods, stepping aside. “I’ll make a cuppa.”

Daisy is in the front room on her stomach and feet up in the air, coloring an outline of a prancing horse. Her hair is still cropped short, but looks less like a crazed hacksaw went at it. Beside her is Eggsy’s present from Kentucky, a bright green ribbon tied around its neck.

“Eggsy,” she says, looking up, a pink spot on her cheek from holding her head up. Eggsy sits down on the floor with her, and Daisy tilts her head before offering him a crayon and waving it in front of his face, looking hopeful. “Colour?”

There’s nothing to do but take it, kneeling to scribble some black into the horse’s mane. When his mum comes back, she sets a mug in front of him and sits beside him, watching both of them for a while before asking, “What happened?”

“Just…” Eggsy starts, then cuts to the chase: “Harry thinks I’m leaving my job. To be with Tilde, be the future king or whatever.”

His mum actually sinks back against the couch like some fainting Victorian lady. “You…you’re marrying Tilde?”

“No,” Eggsy says quickly. There’s no need to get into Glastonbury; his mum would eviscerate him. “No, Harry just thinks that.”

His mum raises her eyebrows. “And why would he?”  

“I dunno.”

“Eggsy,” she says, “no one just randomly thinks their…” His mum pauses before settling on, “ _partner_ is going to leave them without some sort of explanation.” She shakes her head. “Look at me. I’m defending Harry Hart. Always that fucking man...”

“You don’t need to blame him for everything,” Eggsy blurts out in spite of himself. He focuses on the horse’s tail now, keeping out of the way of Daisy, who’s drawing pink clouds in the sky.  

His mum gives him a look, then leans forward, hands on her knees.

Backpedaling, Eggsy sighs. Fair enough. “But Mum, he’s…”

“I know,” his mum says, a bit more wearily. “And I know he thinks of you the same way--could see it from the moment you two showed up at the front door.”

Eggsy stops and sits up back on his knees. “Really?”

“To be honest,” his mum admits, “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Why not?”

“Eggsy, what if I was wrong?” She shakes her head. “The way he was always looking at you, and the way you were—and I thought, _no, Eggsy’s with Tilde; I know my son._ And if you never noticed, well…”

When Daisy nudges Eggsy to keep colouring, Eggsy starts filling in one of the flowers. “You weren’t going to say anything?”

“You have a habit of listening to me, babe,” she says solemnly, and it’s obvious that she’s thinking of the army, the chance Eggsy threw away. He again looks at Daisy, the reason why, but doesn’t feel anything but affection, a change from bitter resentment. “I wanted you to make your decision on your own terms. And you know I’m not good with...with love.”

Eggsy turns to her, putting a hand on her arm. “No, you aren’t.”

“No.” She shakes her head. His mum looks so different from a year ago, hair swept up in a neat bun and with determination--purpose--in her eyes. “Lee and I found each other in good times. Dean found me in a vulnerable place, and I latched onto him.”

“That doesn’t mean--”

“Eggsy. I’ve made my mistakes. That happens in life.” His mum lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. “And some were out of my control. But there are ways that you can make it better. A life worth living.”

With that, Eggsy thinks back to Harry on the plane, admitting his isolation and loneliness. A life that had been taken from him--and a life he’d laid aside.

He knows why Harry told him this: to make sure Eggsy didn’t go down the same path. It had been the complete opposite of what Whiskey told him to do, to simply cruise throughout life without a tether. And it hadn’t just been general advice--it had been a wish. A wish that Harry was in danger of throwing away, too.

Eggsy won’t let him.


	14. Chapter 14

“You do what you want, don’t you?” Merlin mutters when he sees them walk up to the shop.

Eggsy watches Harry raise his chin in a defiant smirk. “I am wearing a suit, as per guidelines. And no plaid trousers, either.”

Merlin shakes his head, then points to Eggsy. “You encourage him.”

When Merlin dramatically storms away, Eggsy stands on his tiptoes to whisper in Harry’s ear, “I do, don’t I?”

“And I thoroughly enjoy it,” Harry says, kissing him on the cheek. Hardly anyone has arrived yet, but even if there’s a crowd, he doesn’t care. He’ll do as he pleases, and if kissing Eggsy is what pleases him, then no one can say otherwise. “But I daresay, you’re the most handsome man here tonight.”

Eggsy’s flaunted with tradition only a little, wearing a forest-green suit and waistcoat with a line of gold buttons. There’s a black-and-gold tie knotted around his neck, along with a handkerchief in the same colours in his right breast pocket. The cufflinks at his wrists are tiny pugs’ heads.

“I can’t pull off that pink vest, though,” Eggsy says, though he preens at the compliment. Harry’s the one who looks amazing with his elegant pinstriped navy suit with tiny golden butterfly cufflinks and a handkerchief matching Eggsy’s in his own pocket.

“I’m sure you can,” Harry says, then kisses Eggsy again. “Shall we mingle?”

“I’ll miss you,” Eggsy says, smiling, and with a brief glance, Harry allows himself to be swept in with a circle of a few of the men from Lock and Co. Merlin’s currently chatting with someone from the distillery, a glass of champagne in his hand.

“Hair looks a bit messed up,” someone says behind him, and Eggsy reaches up to check before putting his hand down and glaring. “Got you.”

“Very funny,” Eggsy says. He looks Tequila up and down, looking surprisingly pretty good in a simple grey suit and black-and-silver tie. “Not bad. Not as great as Harry, though.”

“How will I ever live with the comparison?” Tequila sighs, mock-swooning. He has a puff pastry in his hand. “He ain’t as grumpy anymore. I suspect you got something to do with it.”

Eggsy raises his chin, though he feels his ears burn. “I do.”

“Almost as cheery as Champ. But you know,” Tequila says casually, “I think I might stick around a little longer as long as I don’t have to wear a suit all the time. Trade my cowboy hat into a...bowler?”

“No!” Eggsy immediately exclaims. The very mental picture of it makes him almost snort up his soda.

Tequila continues, unfazed. “A fedora?” 

"You'll look like an arsehole," Roxy counters cheerfully, coming up behind them. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, clad in a dark red jacket and black trousers, along with hipster-looking glasses on her face. It looks like Amelia will have to beat back some people tonight.  

"I guess I can keep some of the cowboy duds," Tequila says. 

"But if you're staying here," Eggsy asks, "are you taking a knight's title?" Not that, to be honest, he can picture it. 

"I think Champ’s opening a position. Fill Whiskey’s, you know. Hoping to seek mine?" 

"No," Eggsy immediately says. "For one, I'd look stupid in a cowboy hat." 

"Not everyone can pull it off," Tequila says thoughtfully. "But I guess you're home here." 

"Yeah," Eggsy says. He is. 

"What about you?" Tequila asks, turning to Roxy, who’s grinning at Eggsy’s cheesiness.

"I would look pretty good," she says. "But no. I didn't whip nineteen boys' arses for a good few months to relinquish my title." 

Tequila laughs. “Point taken. Can’t blame you.” He finally devours the puff pastry in one bite, chewing before asking, “What’s up with all y’all? No more work talk for a bit.”   

Eggsy says, “Harry and I might renovate.”

“Renovate,” Roxy says dryly. “Good luck. That’s a real test of a relationship.”

“If you can survive that, you can survive anything,” Tequila adds. “My aunt and uncle fought over which color to paint the walls for over two months. The house looks like a mash-up between their styles.”

Eggsy smiles, listening to Tequila’s stories about disastrous DIYs. He and Harry can weather it.

“You three,” Merlin says from behind them, and they all jump. “No more gossip, now. Get back to work.”

Muttering guiltily, everyone scatters in different directions. Eggsy grabs the nearest glass of champagne, ready to schmooze about a hundred people.

All of the sudden, it goes almost completely silent, then a loud burst of gasps, camera clicking, and shouts. Eggsy looks around, already fiddling with the dials of his watch, and spots a familiar figure standing in the doorway.

“Go back to your business,” a familiar voice says. “I just wanted to pay a visit to my favorite tailor shop.”

Roxy’s chin has almost hit the collar of her suit. Tequila’s dropped one of the appetizers onto the carpet. Even Merlin’s simply staring, fingers clenching around his ever-present tablet. The crowd begins pushing and shoving and waving their arms, no longer caring about their posh manners.

Only Harry seems calm, and he meets Eggsy’s stunned gaze from across the room and beckons him forward.

“Eggsy,” Harry says, with a mischievous look in his eye, “I forgot to mention that I met Elton John.”


	15. Chapter 15

“Oh, fuck,” Harry curses.

Eggsy peers at the cake, sitting proudly on the glass serving plate, ready to be eaten. By all accounts, it looks perfect: candied peel swirled in graceful curls on the top, golden crust and sides, and temptingly sticky and warm, fresh from the oven and steaming. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I used grapefruit instead of lemon,” Harry says, gesturing to the small silver cut from the side. “It doesn’t taste like anything.” He carefully trims off another piece and pops it into Eggsy’s mouth, watching worriedly as Eggsy chews.

“I think it tastes good,” Eggsy says loyally, though there’s a bit of a crease between his eyebrows. “Maybe…a bit bland? But we can whip up some frosting?”

“For lemon drizzle? My mother would be scandalized,” Harry says, with a sigh.

It’s been his fault, after all. He’d been too distracted to figure out that the he’d mixed up the fruit trees; the lemons were unusually large and the grapefruits were almost bright yellow. In hindsight, he should have tasted along the way, but…

Either way, there’s no way he can present this to the table and no time to make another. They could skip dessert, but what was a party without it?

“If your sister wasn’t coming, I’d suggest after-dinner drinks,” Harry sighs. “Perhaps we have some pop in the fridge?” He opens it, frowning. No, it seems Eggsy finished the last of it.

“Wait, I think I may have a solution.” Immediately, Eggsy goes to the cupboards, throwing them open and holding something in his hand triumphantly. “There’s Jaffa Cakes.”

Harry tilts his head. “Jaffa Cakes?”

“Hey, we have different flavors,” Eggsy says optimistically. “Original, strawberry, vanilla, lemon-lime, apricot…we can arrange them real nice on a plate. Everyone gets a choice.” He rattles a shiny, brightly-coloured package. “And there’s Aeros. Mum loves the mint ones.”

Harry can’t admit that this is his first choice, but it’s too late to go to the store or whip up an alternative. Besides, it seems appropriate; since when had anything they’d done been traditional? “Jaffa Cakes and Areos it is,” he says.

He helps Eggsy arrange them in a pinwheel pattern on their nicest plate, and just when Eggsy places the last one down, the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” Eggsy says, then pecks Harry on the cheek before bounding towards the door, JB at his heels. “Come in, come in, we’re pretty much good to go.”

Harry exits the kitchen just as their guests enter, looking around the house. They’d reassured them that there was no need to dress up, so there are no Kingsman suits here. Merlin has on yet another one of his jumpers, Roxy’s in her usual riding jacket and jeans combination, and Tequila’s in flannel--thankfully, without the cowboy hat. Eggsy’s friends--Jamal, Brandon, and Liam--troop in soon after in hoodies and openly-curious glances.

“You settled down?” Liam asks Eggsy. “You? How?”

Eggsy shrugs. “It’s a long story.” To the amusement of those in the know, he proceeds to spin a tale of vague truths and outright lies, some involving Harry’s stint in the military and Eggsy measuring Harry for a suit, so much so that Jamal mutters jealousy, “Man, you seem to meet the right people at that shop of yours, bruv.”

It seems like the right time to bring up Elton John, and they’re passing Eggsy’s phone around to look at the multiple pictures when it vibrates.

“Mum and Daisy will be here in a minute,” Eggsy says, looking up from his screen. “Apparently, Daisy made a mess in the kitchen--knocked a whole thing of olive oil on the floor.”

Roxy makes a face, and she and Harry exchange a quick, secret look of consternation.

“Well, we can have a drink while we wait,” Harry suggests.

Immediately, orders come: “Just scotch,” “Jack and coke,” “same here,” “er..just...Jack Daniels,” “anything but a martini,” “Irish car bomb,” “you know what I like.” Harry goes to the drink cart--a housewarming present from Merlin--and begins pouring with an expert hand.

“You’re a bartender, too?” Brandon asks, looking suspiciously at Harry, but quaffs his drink anyway. He shares a significant glance, who only replies dryly, “Harry taught me how to make a proper martini.”

“I don’t want to know about your sex life, bruv,” Liam chimes in, and there’s a roar of laughter.

“What do you like, Roxy?” Harry desperately asks. “Anything but a martini leaves a lot of room open for interpretation.”

Roxy shrugs. “My parents would kill me, but I’ve grown to like that fruity wine Eggsy got from Asda.”

“That’s mostly cranberry juice,” Eggsy laughs.

“Yes, I prefer drinking something that doesn’t taste like industrial paint stripper.” Roxy shrugs. “If you don’t have it, margarita or pina colada--and no, Tequila, don’t start.”

Tequila raises his hands in surrender. “Can’t help that the song is so catchy.”

“You choose the worst songs,” Eggsy says, but with decidedly less venom than a few months ago.

“Got ‘Waterloo’ stuck in my head for two weeks,” Roxy adds.

“I can still hear that one about Brandy and the sailor,” Merlin mutters.

“It’s a good song!” Tequila protests, just as Harry hands Roxy a margarita.

His and Eggsy’s fingers brush. Eggsy gives him a small secret smile, which Harry returns, ignoring everyone’s knowing looks. He then pours himself a drink to match Eggsy’s, and they stand around, offering small talk and bits of gossip and teasing. Harry’s rather tempted to drop his glass eye into Tequila’s drink for a bit of fun, but he might as well stride forward and strike Merlin in the face.

Ms. Unwin and Daisy arrive with babbled excuses and waving of a bright pink Hello Kitty tote bag. Harry offers Ms. Unwin a drink, which she refuses because she’s driving home, and they awkwardly look at each other until Daisy shows off her new haircut--thankfully, done at the hair salon this time.

“Look good, Dais,” Eggsy says. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah!” she exclaims loudly, and everyone laughs. “Thirsty, too!”

Eggsy ruffles his sister’s curls. “What do you want, then?”

Daisy tilts her head up. “Martini,” she declares.

“Orange juice is just as good,” Eggsy says, then beats a quick retreat to the kitchen.

Luckily, the table is set, each utensil and glass and plate in their proper place, and the candles are lit in the middle. But that's all of the fanfare; the food is already laid out in the middle, steaming underneath the silver lids. No courses, just a buffet. 

Harry, with little ceremony, begins lifting off the lids, revealing a feast of samosas, tikka masala, pot pie, miniature beef wellingtons, roasted vegetables, leek and potato soup, curry, falafel, and fried rice--some cooked themselves, some ordered from various takeaways, and, in one case, frozen. “Tuck in.”

"Oh, oh, wait," Eggsy says suddenly, dashing back to the kitchen. Everyone pauses, Roxy's hand in middle of scooping some roasted vegetables and Tequila's fork halfway to his mouth. Eggsy then comes from the kitchen, holding up the green bottle of champagne. "I almost forgot!" 

The cork is popped to a round of applause. Eggsy's generous with pouring, filling everyone's glasses—except for Daisy's, of course—to the brim. When Eggsy leans in, shoulder brushing Harry's, Harry tilts his head to give him a brief kiss on the cheek. 

Lastly, Eggsy fills up his own glass and raises it, remaining standing. There’s so much to celebrate: survival, a first successful joint mission, Kingsman rebuilding, beginnings anew.  

“To everyone here tonight,” Eggsy says simply. He clinks his glass against Harry's, smiling softly. "Salud," he murmurs in his posh accent. 

"Salud," Harry replies, amused. 

Everyone tucks in after a round of glass clinking. The food's a bit cooler, but not by much, and laughter and banter ring out in all directions. There’s fighting over the Elton John tickets--“we’ll take pictures,” Eggsy says coyly--and a surprisingly hot debate about whether Spider-Man could fly.

“He’s flying through the sky, ain’t he?”

“...He swings! He doesn’t fucking fly!”

“Oi, language!”

“He gets help from those webs he spits out of his fingers--”

“You don’t say trapeze artists are flying--”

“Yes, we do: flying through the air and all that--”

“...By his own power--don’t compare him to Superman or some shit--”

“--Flying squrriels--”

“My _arse_ , flying squrriels--”

_“Language.”_

“Arse! Arse! Arse!”

“That’s it, time for dessert,” Eggsy announces cheerfully. With a wink at Harry, he disappears back into the kitchen. Everyone around the table is dead silent until Merlin breaks it, voice tight with irritation: “...He doesn’t fly.”

There are bemused looks at the assortment of Jaffa Cakes, but Daisy claps her hands at the sight of strawberry ones.

Soon, an array of games are spread out on the kitchen table from cards to charades to Scrabble to Uno to Catch Phrase to Cards Against Humanity. Eggsy puts on some music, the younger folks snatch up Cards Against Humanity, and Ms. Unwin and Merlin try their hands at cards with Merlin as the dealer. Harry sits beside him, declining offers from both groups, preferring to sit. 

Daisy climbs up on his lap. 

"Hello," he says. 

"Hello," she replies, then waves the horse Eggsy gave him at him. 

They talk about school, about books, about movies. Harry's just impressing upon her the music choices of _Up_ and the dissonance of cheerful music against a sad scene and vice versa when Eggsy looks his way and smiles. 

After a few rounds of games—it turns out Harry's fairly good at Catch Phrase but abysmal at charades due to his lack of drawing skills—everyone's moved to the languid, sleepy stage of the party. Merlin, Eggsy, Roxy, and Tequila are lazily playing Scrabble without a scorecard; Eggsy’s friends are trying to break the tie of the last charades game; and Ms. Unwin’s sitting with Daisy in her lap, scrolling through her phone.  

She does, however, nods to the frame hanging near the threshold. "Interesting choice," she says dryly to Harry.

"Eggsy got it for me," Harry says. There's more strewn around the house. He might not ever regain his original collection, but he has what he needs.

Harry can see how much things have changed. There's a crayon picture from Daisy on the fridge, a series of rotating photos from a picture frame on the mantle, a few seashells from Brighton. Even though it’s not obvious at first glance--and often non-accessible without biometric security--there are also Kingsman tools around the house, stashed in every room just in case.

The music switches to something quieter--one of Harry’s choices. He misses the record player, the albums from his parents’ generation, and the dusty Walkman, but he wouldn’t trade those possessions for this night at all.

"You seem happy," Ms. Unwin says softly. 

"I am. Happier than I thought I could ever be.”

A small eruption of noise interrupts them, and Harry turns just in time to see Merlin gesticulating wildly at the board. “That is _not_ a word,” he protests.

“Yes, it is," Tequila argues. 

"It is _not_ ," Merlin protests. 

"Sorry, mate, it is," Eggsy says, looking down at his phone. "Says here it's a Scrabble word—an abbreviation for pizza." 

"Rubbish," Merlin mutters darkly. 

“Those are my last letters anyway,” Tequila says cheerfully. “So, game over. Winner—good note to end on, if I do say so myself.” 

“What time is it?" Eggsy asks, then looks at his mobile again. “Wow, that's late.” 

“Yes, I think we should go,” Roxy says politely, covering her mouth to hide a yawn. She stretches her arms above her head, legs swinging off the edge of the couch. "Need any help tidying up?" 

"Merlin put the dishes away, even though we told him not to," Eggsy says, emphasizing the last few words. Merlin only shrugs. “So, I think we're covered. Everyone got a ride home?" 

There's a chorus of confirmations and promises to come by soon, and everyone's out, heading back to the cars. 

"Phew," Eggsy says, glancing around the room. "Sorry, Harry, went on longer than we thought we would." 

"It's quite all right," Harry says. "And it was fun." 

Eggsy grins up at him, beginning to tidy up. "Maybe we can do it again?" 

“We can,” Harry says. “And leave it. There’s the morning.”

Just then, the music shifts to soft jazz, something they both recognize from the night with the martinis. 

Eggsy beams. “One last dance, though?” 

“Of course,” Harry says. One hand goes easily to Eggsy’s hip, the other reaching upwards. Eggsy’s hand meets his, fingers closing around each other, and nothing has ever felt so right.

"Remember when you taught me how to dance all those posh dances?" Eggsy breathes in his ear. "During the twenty-four hours?" 

"Yes," Harry says. The slow steps, the firm yet gentle grip he'd had on Eggsy's hand and waist, the soft music playing from a record player that had been in its prime during the eighties. "You were a fast learner." 

"I stepped on your feet." 

"Common for a beginner, especially if he ingested three martinis." 

Eggsy laughs. "True. Those were good." He looks up at Harry mischievously. "If I wasn't your candidate, would we have gone to your room afterwards?”

He knows that it’s just a game, but Harry stops to consider. At that time, he hadn’t taken home anyone in years, preferring solitude and security over going out to bars in hopes of meeting a stranger that he’ll have to lie to. “How would I have met you?" 

"I don't know," Eggsy says playfully. "At the Marines? Tesco’s? The bus stop?” 

“I was undercover during that time, and Waitrose was closer to the old house,” Harry says. “And I don’t take the bus.”

“Then, good thing we met,” Eggsy easily retorts. The next song's playing, but neither of them is paying attention to it. "No matter the reason." 

"Yes," Harry says. "A good thing indeed.” His head feels delightfully swimmy, feet light, hands still around Eggsy’s waist. “And in answer to your question…I believe I would have.”  

Eggsy grins up at him. “Same here. I thought about it, but...I thought it would stay that way. A fantasy.”

“You know better than that now,” Harry replies, and together, they share a kiss.

Eggsy's face buries into his shoulder. "Mm." 

"Let's go to bed," Harry says. "It's late, and we need to be at HQ tomorrow." 

"Ugh." Eggsy sighs, reluctantly peeling himself away and turning off the music. Harry goes to the windows and makes sure they're locked, then scans the room one last time.

Eggsy’s waiting for him at the foot of the staircase. "Ready?" 

"Yes." 

“All right,” Eggsy says, with a smile, “time for bed.”

Together, they ascend the steps and close the door behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself after the sequel came out, I would write a very long fix-it fic that deals with the fallout of Kingsman, expands on killed-off characterization, resurrect some characters, and have Eggsy and Harry shop for a house together. I do hope I succeeded in most of that, and for the successes, I would like to thank Futuredescending for beta-ing, making funny comments on the Google Doc, and consoling me while weeping about not finishing. Here's to you, Sarah! 
> 
> Shout-out to the others who cheered me on, and of course, a shoutout to writehandman for his lovely artwork! :)


End file.
